


Plausible Deniability

by unn_known



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer, One Direction
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bloodshed, F/M, Mafia AU, Sex, Violence, medical procedures performed by seriously underqualified persons
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-13 03:13:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 22,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29271561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unn_known/pseuds/unn_known
Summary: Aila Greene enjoys her life. She has to work two jobs and share a house with four others in order to afford continued existence, but it’s not a bad life. Even when her world gets turned upside down, she is thankful for what she has — amazing friends and an opportunity to start anew.A lost wallet and a chance meeting throws everything Aila knows into free-fall. She has to decide how much change she’s willing to handle. She must choose between letting it go and going about her life, or solving the mystery that is Niall Horan. The question is: Will she like what she finds out?
Relationships: Louis Tomlinson/Original Female Character(s), Niall Horan/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 26
Kudos: 6





	1. the beginning

Heavy bass pounds through the building, colours flashing and swirling to the beat as a sea of bodies shift down on the floor. The air is thick with heat and various odours, and a line snakes away from the bar. It hasn’t moved in the last two minutes; too many people want refreshments, and the three bartenders are struggling to keep up with the demand.

Aila finishes off the drink in her hand and pouts when she realise it’s most likely the final one of the night. None of her friends will want to spend god knows how long in the line at the bar. Besides, they all have work tomorrow. Doing their jobs while severely hungover is rarely an appealing prospect.

“One last dance?”

She looks away from the ice cubes swimming in the bottom of her glass, red-blue-green lights strobing across Angel’s face. “If we must.”

“We must.”

Angel reaches for Aila’s hand, drags her toward the stairs. Somehow, with a magical skill Aila will never understand, Angel manages to find Cheyenne, Paisley, and Willow with no trouble. Aila lets her friends pull her closer to the epicentre of their cluster, allows the heady beat of the music and the heat of the dance-floor to drag her away from reality.

Her gaze flickers up to the balcony wrapped around the dance floor. Sharp lines, pale eyes, full lips. His hair falls over his forehead in a mess of curls. He raises his glass before swallowing down his drink in one swallow. He promises danger just by existing. Aila gulps and focuses on her friends again.

The streets of East Primden are still full of people, even though every clock in the vicinity reads well after midnight. The pre-festival excitement thrums in the air. It happens every three months—a routine Aila can rely on to never change. Cold wind nips at the faces of everyone as it breezes through the city, and Aila laughs as Paisley presses closer into her.

“You really should’ve worn a jacket,” she teases, and Paisley rolls her eyes. “That’s mean. Go snuggle with Chey. Maybe she likes you more than I do.”

Paisley shoves against her then wobbles on unsteady feet toward the other three. Aila watches as Cheyenne pushes Paisley into Willow’s side, the squeals of laughter echoing in the streets. No one spares a glance for the five drunk women, too focused on their own treks home.

Aila slows, blinks to clear the double-vision. The lump of black stays where it is in the gutter. Her friends have already gone ahead, singing to some pop song in off-key voices. Aila inches closer to the lump and breathes out a sigh of relief when it turns out to be nothing more than a wallet. Ducking down—and barely managing to catch herself before she falls on her face—she plucks up the wallet.

The pockets are empty. There are no cards in the sleeves except for a license, tucked neatly in its windowed slot. Aila has no hope of reading the name printed, but the face that stares up at her is all she can focus on. A shiver slips down her spine; she wonders if it’s the cold of the night or the chill in the man’s eyes, even through a photograph, that affects her so. She shakes her head and tucks the wallet into her clutch.

This is a mystery for tomorrow, when she has had sleep and there is far less alcohol in her system.

“Wait up!”

Her friends stumble to a stop, taunting and laughing at her as she struggles to catch up to them. Her heels make running more difficult than anticipated, so Aila settles for a brisk walk. Willow slings an arm around her neck, pressing a smacking kiss to her cheek, and Cheyenne starts shouting out the words to another song as they continue their trek to the station.

Morning comes far too early, and Aila groans as she rolls over in her bed. Paisley’s phone buzzes again on the nightstand between the beds, but neither woman makes a move to stop the alarm. Aila covers her head with the pillow to muffle the noise. It doesn’t work, so she throws her pillow at Paisley.

“Make it stop,” Aila whines without lifting her head.

“Leave me alone.”

“Then turn off your damn alarm so I can sleep.”

“You hafta work today.”

“So do you.”

“I’ll get the ibuprofen, you get the shower ready.”

“I’m taking all the hot water.”

Paisley grunts in response, and Aila smiles to herself even as she pushes herself to sit up. Her head swims with the action, her stomach churning. She sniffs then gags. She smells like alcohol and the weird combination of body odours that only ever comes from a club.

A hazy memory floats to the forefront of her mind—a black smudge on the ground, nearly falling on her face as she picked it up. The ice that fills the owner’s eyes on his license. Aila clambers out of bed and grabs her clutch from where she tossed it last night.

His eyes are the same in the daylight. Still frozen, even through a photograph. Hard. She swallows down the shiver and puts the wallet back in her clutch. She knows what she’s doing today before going to work.

If someone found her wallet, she hopes they’d return it. She has to do the same, no matter how much the picture makes her wonder if the man is really as cold as he looks.

Shower done—with plenty of hot water left for her roommates—Aila dresses in a pair of simple jeans and a sweater that falls almost to her knees. It was Colton’s, she remembers belatedly. She’d taken it shortly after meeting him. Thankfully, it doesn’t smell like him still.

It holds the aromas of coffee, her perfume, the sharp crispness of snow. Nothing left of him.

Angel and Willow are sat on the couch by the time Aila exits the room she shares with Paisley. Angel’s nut brown hair is pulled back in a sloppy bun, her sweatpants rolled up at the hems to reveal her ankles, her paint-stained T-shirt slipping off one shoulder. Willow looks completely put together for it being so early in the morning.

“Where you going?” Willow asks, glancing up from her magazine.

Aila pauses. She doesn’t know why she’s hesitant to tell her friends about the wallet. “Got some errands to run before work.”

“Have fun,” Angel slurs before she stuffs a spoonful of cereal into her mouth.

Aila shakes her head and makes her way to the front door. She slips her feet into the boots her mother sent two years ago—“I know it gets cold there in the winter, and I don’t want you breaking your neck by falling on ice”. _Thanks, Mom, for the wonderful Christmas present. It’s almost like you put thought into it_. Aila hadn’t said it, though. It was a good period, and she didn’t want to ruin that.

Four different cab companies refuse her request for a ride. Aila frowns as the last one merely hangs up when she says the address of her destination. Sighing, she resigns herself to taking the commuter train as far as it will go then walk the rest of the way.

By the time she arrives, she can’t feel her face, her fingers, or her toes. She double-checks the address in the wallet with the numbers on the brick pillars, stepping closer to the tall iron gate. The barbs on the pickets give her pause. The height of the fencing is enough deterrent from trespassers, she would think.

Beyond the gate, snow blankets the grounds, thick and undisturbed except for a long snake of asphalt leading the house. ‘House’ is not enough of a word to encompass what she sees. Beige stones make up the front, and the enormous windows reflect the weak December sunlight. The mansion—because that’s what it is—could fit at least four of her house with room to spare. Twelve-hundred square feet hardly seems large enough for four women.

Aila blows out a breath. Obviously, this man is filthy rich. Maybe she’ll get a reward for returning his wallet? She turns her gaze back to the fence and very nearly touches one of the barbs with her fingertip. Her brain kicks in before she makes contact. Scolding herself for being so careless, Aila looks around for some way of announcing her presence.

A black intercom box hangs from the pillar to her right. A wrought-iron awning protects it from the elements. Aila clears her throat and presses the button. A squawk comes through the speakers, then a cold voice fills the air, asking what she wants. She steps closer.

“Hi, I, um, I found a wallet that belongs to someone at this address?”

“Name?”

“Mine?”

“No, on the license,” the man corrects, and derision floods his voice.

“Oh! Of course.” Aila opens the wallet. She almost drops it in the snow at her feet. “A Mister Niall Ho-ran? I think that’s how it’s pronounced.”

“Stay there.”

Another squawk, and the box falls silent again. Aila frowns, muttering, “Yes, because I’m going to leave when I still have this man’s wallet, after you already know I’m here to give it back. How dumb do you think I am?”

After a minute, a car pulls up on the other side of the gate. Sleek and shiny. Well taken care of, judging by the purr of the engine. A man steps out of the front seat, approaches the gate. He’s dressed in all black, and Aila wonders if she could see her reflection in his boots.

She makes a show of comparing the license photo with the man that stands before her. “You don’t _look_ like Mister Ho-ran. I wanna make sure I give it back to the rightful owner.”

He doesn’t say anything. He only holds out his hand, stony-faced, as immovable as the stones of the house. Aila sighs and passes it through the pickets. She takes care not to get caught on the barbs.

“Fine. But if he comes after me because you don’t give this back to him, I’m haunting your ass. I know where you work.”

Something flickers across his face. She thinks it’s amusement, but then his face shifts back to stoic. He turns on his heel and heads back to the car.

“Oh, and it was empty when I found it. Make sure he knows I’m not a thief.”

He doesn’t reply. Aila watches as he reverses up the driveway. It isn’t until he’s out of sight that she remembers the numbness in her body. She goes back to the intercom box.

“Hey! How am I supposed to get home? It’s fucking cold, and I don’t wanna walk all that way.”

No answer. _Of course. Just my luck._ Rolling her eyes, she turns to stare down the road for a moment. She sighs and sets off, snow crunching beneath her feet. Maybe she’ll become an Aila-shaped icicle and the guard will feel bad. Maybe it will haunt him for the rest of his life. Maybe he’ll be old and grey and thinking to himself, ‘I really should have given that poor girl a lift. I’m a monster.’

Aila is nearly ten minutes away from the house when another car slows to a stop. The candy-apple red paint glitters even beneath the overcast skies. She raises a brow as the passenger window rolls down, ducking down to look at the driver. His eyes are hidden behind sunglasses, and his lips are set in a hard line amongst the stubble.

“Get in.”

“Excuse me? I don’t know you.”

“You asked about a way home. I’m it. Unless you _want_ to walk.”

Aila really, really doesn’t want to walk. So she blows out a breath and grabs the handle. The man’s expression turns mildly surprised when she slides into the front seat. She ignores it, twisting to buckle up. He puts the car in gear and asks where she’s going. She gives the address and hopes she isn’t going to die.

Joseph would have her head if she didn’t show up for her shift at the Northend.

Thankfully, the man drops her off in front of her house without any murdering, and Aila thanks him as sincerely as she can. The ride had been full of awkward silence—she’d barely managed to not ask what it’s like living in such an enormous house. Or if Mister Horan’s eyes were as cold in person as they are in his license photo.

He peels away the instant she closes the door behind her.

“Well, that’s just rude,” she mumbles before turning toward the house. Best to not dwell on it.

She has enough to think about.


	2. ink on skin

Over the next week, Aila manages to forget about the mansion, the rude guard who tried to make her walk home, and the man who’d been a saviour no matter how rude he was. There is too much in her brain already, so she uses her two jobs as an excuse to occupy her mind.

Her friends have tried to cheer her up, distract her from the pain she’s felt for the last two months. It hasn’t worked. How is Aila supposed to just brush off the fact that her ten-year relationship ended abruptly? Messily and painfully and leaving her with tears and snot on her face, and Colton Irvine perfectly fine?

The worst part, though, was being left at the altar. She’d stood before their families and friends in a gown her mother picked, holding a bouquet her mother picked, and waited for the fiance she loved so much. He never showed. Her face burned with mortification as everyone realised he wasn’t coming. She had been so distraught that she hadn’t noticed Aubrey was no longer in the line of bridesmaids.

A week later, she found out the reason they both abandoned her on her wedding day: Aubrey and Colton had found each other, discarding Aila without a thought for how she would feel. Her fiance had cheated on her for nearly a year, and Aila hadn’t seen the signs. She was too busy trying to plan the wedding while her mother took over every single decision.

“Good riddance,” Angel said before sending a message to Aubrey telling her she had thirty days to get her stuff. She was no longer welcome to live in the three-room house with the rest of them.

Aila steps through the doors of La Serene Hotel, ready to ask for a shift. Russ shakes his head before she can even ask. He scurries out from behind the check-in desk and throws his arm over her shoulders. She plants her feet as he tries to steer her to the door. He sighs.

“Too far into overtime, hun. Sorry.”

“But—”

“Go home. Relax. Trust me, your check will be large enough even without working today.”

Aila pouts and pokes his shoulder. “You used to be cool before you became a big-shot manager.”

“I’m still cool. You just don’t see it because you’re being a brat.”

“Screw you.”

But she’s laughing as she leaves. The cold wind whips around her face, hair swirling and dancing among the snowflakes. She has no idea where to go. Going home doesn’t sound appealing—Cheyenne’s girlfriend is over, and Aila really can’t stand the thought of being around so much lovey-dovey kissing and cuddling. Paisley is at work, and Angel is at the salon so Willow can colour her hair again.

Aila decides to walk around the city. She has lived in East Primden for seven years. Colton had begged her to come with him after she turned eighteen. He’d gotten a job at a manufacturing plant, and he claimed he couldn’t live without her by his side. The six hours between Primden and Tarris were five and a half hours too many, he said. She’d foolishly followed him.

Despite the time here, she hasn’t had the chance to actually _see_ what the city offers. As soon as she and Colton had moved into a tiny little flat near the edge of the city, he was gone for work all the time. She needed something to distract her from the lonely hours, stumbling onto a housekeeping job at La Serene within days. She applied for the position at the Northend a week later.

They lost the flat, Colton moved back to Tarris to live with his parents, and Aila had nowhere to go. Andrew had allowed her to stay in one of the smaller rooms, free of charge, for a week. Then he’d told her she had to go—it was cutting into the profits. Angel, rightfully named, had been a blessing. Though she and Aila never really talked, she’d offered up a room in the house with her friends.

“You’ll have to share, but it’s better than being on the streets.”

Meeting Paisley Hoyle had felt like finding a soulmate. Paisley was ambitious where Aila was content her life as it was. Aila was reserved where Paisley didn’t care what people thought of her. She’d wear whatever struck her fancy, despite the stares she got when walking around. Aila was desperate to fade into the background.

Attention only reminded her of the attention she’d received at the church. When everyone watched her dreams shatter around her.

But over the years, Paisley has helped Aila find more to live for.

Willow Chapman is the ‘party animal’ of the group, often dragging the others to clubs where they can dance and drink the nights away. Cheyenne Berns is the most understanding and responsible one, and that nurturing spirit only grew in intensity once she met her girlfriend six months after Aila moved in.

Angel Walton proved herself to be loyal, even going so far as to hunt Colton down and scream at him about how he lost the most amazing woman he’ll ever find.

Aila never expected Aubrey Geller to help him cheat. Aubrey had been quiet and always quick to lend an ear whenever any of them needed to talk. Even while sleeping with Colton, Aubrey was like a sister to Aila. Aila never saw it coming, two relationships severing with the truth that Colton was taking Aubrey to bed before coming to Aila’s.

Colton spent a year saving up for a new flat, moving back to North Primden. He got his old job at the plant and promised things would be different now. Their relationship picked up where it left off—Aila completely, desperately in love and his promises that turned out to be so empty. She’d told him she refused to move in until a ring was on her finger.

He proposed a week later.

She should’ve seen the signs when all he did was hand her the box with a quick ‘Love you, babe’. When he didn’t seem interested in planning their wedding. When he kept postponing the date until Aila put her foot down.

Now she sees it for what it was—the knowledge that even if she wasn’t living with him, he was still happy enough with Aubrey to keep him satisfied.

Aila is still disgusted at the thought of how many times they’d had sex with Aubrey still on his tongue.

She can’t help but wonder if he’d been as unfaithful during the year apart, despite how often they talked on the phone every day.

She’s halfway through her shift at the Northend when Joseph approaches. Aila sets the bill on the table, telling the patrons to have a wonderful night, before following her manager to the front. He stands behind her and waits for the husband and wife to pay for their meals. Once she’s finished cashing the bill out, she turns to him. A heavy weight settles in her belly—she knows that look.

“What’s up?”

“We’re dead tonight, so why don’t you go on home?”

“It’s only eight, Joe. I’m sure it’ll pick up again.”

“Aila.”

She doesn’t argue further. She merely unties her apron on her way to the break-room. Stuffing the apron and order pad into her oversized purse, she slings the strap over her should and calls out a ‘goodnight’ to Hester and Michel.

The cold air of the night sucks away Aila’s breath. She’d somehow forgotten the low temperatures in the hours spent indoors, moving around and serving tables. She remembers now as the sweat on her skin freezes. She tugs her coat more securely around herself, ambling down the pavement.

The bar is the one place Aila never expected to end up. She stares up at the neon sign— _Bobby’s_ —then pushes open the door. She doesn’t want to get drunk, but she doesn’t want to go home.

The televisions hanging on the grey-painted brick walls catch her attention as soon as she steps inside. Aila frowns, stepping to the side for anyone else who might come in. Her gaze skims over the matches on-screen until one in particular catches her attention. She groans with the rest of the bar-goers when the goalie blocks the shot. Cursing under her breath, disgusted with the score so far, she weaves her way through the tables until she reaches the bar.

The bartender smiles and shakes his black hair from his face. “What can I get ya?”

“Hi, can I get a White Russian? Oh, and a shot of whisky, please.”

His brows furrow, but he dutifully sets about making her drinks. “Celebrating or drowning sorrows?”

“A bit of both,” she admits and winces at the emotion that slips into her voice.

She hadn’t expected to feel anything tonight. She’s done so well with keeping thoughts of Colton and Aubrey out of her mind. But now that he’s asked, the memories surge forward. Aila shakes off the dark cloud that forms over her head, in her gut. The bartender passes over a shotglass, and she mutters a quick “Sláinte”. She swallows the shot in one go then taps the glass to the bar two times. Just like Eoin taught her.

The man slides the mixed drink across the bar to her. She ignores the inquisitive expression on his handsome face. His brown eyes are golden in the lights overhead. She wraps her fingers around the cold glass and turns to examine the available seating. A booth near the window has just cleared out. She thanks the bartender, tosses a bill from her pocket onto the bar, and hurries to the empty seat.

She doesn’t even care that the previous patron’s glasses are still there. She just needed away from the bartender before she made him into her therapist.

“Aila?”

She almost thinks she’s imagined it, the rough scrape of his voice, but then she looks up. Colton stands at the edge of her table, frowning down at her. His eyes are nearly black, the glow of the televisions dancing off his dark skin. He swipes a hand over his cropped hair before sliding onto the empty bench across from her.

“What are you doing here?” he asks. Aila can’t believe his audacity to act as if he hadn’t ripped her heart from his chest.

“What’s it look like?”

Colton sighs, and his long fingers trace the label on his beer. “Can we talk?”

Aila only shrugs as she turns her attention to the disappointing match. Colton pauses then blows out a breath.

“I’m so sorry for what I did. I should never have slept with one of your best friends. It was wrong, and I regret doing it. And for leaving you at the altar in front of everyone. I should’ve talked to you, explained how I was feeling.”

“You cheated on me, Colt. For almost a _year_. Choosing someone else to sleep with wouldn’t have been any better. But hey, whatever you wanted was all that mattered, right?”

“Damn it, Aila, I’m trying to apologise.”

Before she can say anything, the bartender interrupts. Another drink is in his hand, and Aila blinks down at her empty glass. She hadn’t realised she drank it all so quickly. She smiles up at the man and thanks him.

“Don’t thank me, babe. It came from the guy at the end of the bar.”

Aila’s gaze follows where he points, and her breath hitches. He’s gorgeous. Even with the distance and the low lights, she can see the vivid blue of his eyes, the line of his jaw, the subtle curve to his lips. The broad shoulders her hands itch to run across. He cards his fingers through his dark hair, winking at her when she continues staring.

She raises her glass in thanks then asks the bartender to pass along her gratitude. His gaze cuts to Colton, a slight curl to his lip before he turns away. Aila swallows a giggle. The man has obviously read her ex-fiance well.

“That was fucking disrespectful.”

She stirs the ice in her drink as she levels him with a flat look. “What was?”

“What if you’d been dating me? He would’ve been intruding on our relationship.” His eyes widen. “You’re not going home with him, are you? He’s a _stranger_ , Aila. That’s dangerous.”

She slides out of the booth, grabbing her bag from the seat. Thanking the old Irishman who lived next door for what she’s about to say next, Aila raises a brow at Colton. “Póg mo thóin. _You_ left _me_. You no longer get a say in who I fuck.”

Colton’s jaw tics, and he opens his mouth to say something. She cuts him off.

“Your stuff is at your parents’. I made sure to take a train the whole six hours to give it back. So… I think we’re done here.”

“The ring?”

“You mean the ring that said you’d spend your life with me?” Aila lets out a mirthless laugh and swallows down her drink. “It’s in one of the boxes of worthless memories you left behind.”

She orders another shot and finishes it quickly. The bartender gives her a reassuring smile as she drops a few bills into the tip jar, and she waggles her fingers before heading outside. Colton calls after her, but she ignores him. It’s no longer the voice she aches to hear.

> **From: Aila (22:51)  
>  <** When you’re done with work, can you pick me up? I’m at Bobby’s on 7th.
> 
> **From: Paze (23:02)  
>  >** Great timing, sweet cheeks. Heading out the door now.

Aila drops her phone into her bag and leans against the wall, closing her eyes. How could this have become her life? All the years she thought she would be Mrs Irvine, down the drain because of Colton’s selfishness. The lack of support she got from her parents after he broke her heart. Her mother only made excuses for his actions.

“Oh, I doubt he _actually_ cheated on you, Aila. And even if he did, you should forgive him. He was just stressed about the wedding. Can you honestly say you’ll find anyone better than Colton?”

Her father didn’t care one way or the other. He kept his nose out of her business. She used to wish he showed more interest in her life.

The door swings open, a raucous roar coming from the crowd swelling in the quiet. Someone must have flubbed. Aila opens her eyes to see, only a few feet away, the man who bought her drink. Had he meant to make Colton jealous? She frowns and peers more closely at him. He looks familiar, and she can’t place why.

“You okay?”

His voice sends shivers down her spine, her knees turning to jelly. Rich, low, the same accent as her childhood neighbour. He’s beautiful up close. She nods quickly and huddles in on herself.

“Cold, mostly.”

“Hey, girl! Where have you been?”

Her head snaps up at the sound of heels clicking closer. The woman leading the group beams and wraps her in a tight hug, as if they’ve known each other their entire lives. She’s a stranger. Aila pulls back and pastes a smile on her face.

“Sorry, I needed fresh air, started wandering, and wound up here. Oh! This is my friend, James. He’s waiting with me until my roommate comes.”

“Pleasure,” the woman says sweetly, but Aila sees the tension disappearing from her shoulders. “Well, call me when you get home?’

“Absolutely.”

The man watches the group of women disappear around the corner then turns back to Aila. His brow quirks. “Friends of yours?”

“Not a damn one of ‘em.” Aila laughs, a real laugh that she hasn’t heard from herself in a long while. “But they did what women should. They looked out for me, in case you’re a flesh-suit-wearing serial killer or something. Wish Aubrey would have had that decency,” she mutters under her breath.

He looks like he’s about to ask what she means, so she hurriedly shakes her head. Spilling the story to the bartender is one thing. Telling a perfect stranger what’s happened is another. Aila’s phone beeps in her bag, and she pulls it out to read the text from Paisley—her friend is stuck at a red light a block away.

“Could I have your number?”

She freezes, eyes widening. He isn’t a friend. She doesn’t know him. Giving him a way of tracking her sounds like a very poor decision. Her lips form the word ‘no’, but “Sure” comes out instead. His smile is gorgeous, takes away the chill in his eyes, and he pats his pockets.

“I… left my mobile in the bar,” he announces with a twist of his lips. “I don’t think I’ll have enough time to grab it before your friend gets here.”

“No worries. I’m always prepared.”

Aila digs a pen out from the bottom of her bag, uncapping it while he rolls up the sleeve of his button-down to expose his forearm. She steps closer without hesitation. The scent of his cologne is more intoxicating than she expected, and her head swims more than it had after the drinks. She bites her tongue and holds her breath. He stands completely still as she scrawls her number in ink on his arm.

“There ya go.”

He grins and gestures toward the street where Paisley’s car idles. “Looks like you’ve gotta go.”

“Yeah, Paze might kill me if I make her wait too long. Um, thanks for the drink. And for waiting with me.”

His only response is a soft smile. Aila swallows harshly and makes her way to the car. He waves then heads back inside. She blows out a breath and looks at Paisley. She wants to tell her friend about him—about how he smelled, how soft his skin was under her fingers, about the way the ice in his eyes had melted as he stared at her. How he looked familiar but she couldn’t place why. Instead, she keeps those details to herself.

She does tell Paisley about Colton showing up. That’s a safe topic, as rage-inducing as it is. It’s something Aila is willing enough to share.


	3. not-stalking

Aila rolls onto her back, staring at the ceiling. Her head is pounding, but not because of the drinks she had last night. She had nightmares of being engaged to Colton again. Of walking in to find him and Aubrey tangled together in the sheets, and still staying with him, clearing out of the flat whenever Aubrey came over. Of giving permission for his affairs. Of saying their vows with her ex-friend hanging off his arm the entire time.

Aila wonders why she can’t just get over this. Betrayal hurts, but it’s something she should be used to. Sighing, she reaches for her phone to check the time. 07:27.

> **Unknown Number (01:37)  
>  >** Hope you made it home safely  
>  **Unknown Number (07:10)  
>  >** How are you feeling today?
> 
> **From: Aila (07:28)  
>  <** I’m okay. My head hurts a bit but I’m perfectly peachy.  
>  **From: Aila (07:28)  
>  <** Is this “James”?

She climbs out of bed, frowning when she sees Paisley’s is already made. Paisley rarely wakes before Aila. She shakes off the thoughts and follows the scent of coffee to the kitchen. Cheyenne hands her a mug as soon as Aila steps into the room, and Aila ignores how it scalds her tongue as she drinks it quickly. She has fifteen minutes to leave the house for a morning shift at the Northend.

Stepping into the restaurant is like stepping into a war-zone. It seems like everyone in East Primden has decided to come out for breakfast. Aila ties her apron on even as she heads to the hostess stand to find out which section she is scheduled for.

Time slips by once Aila slips into the routine of taking orders, serving food and drinks, and cashing out. It’s a well-learnt dance from her years here, one in which she never loses her step. She grins brightly and suggests dishes. She laughs when the jokes aren’t funny and ignores the disgusting comments from men.

She sets fresh drinks on a table and turns to greet the next one only to stumble to a stop. ‘James’ sits in the corner booth with his back to the wall. The man who’d given her a lift home sits at his side. Neither notice her, too busy reading the menus in their hands. Aila smooths down the front of her black button-down.

As startling as it is to see them here, she has a job to do. And who’s to say they don’t always come here in the morning? The bar is only two blocks away, and she doesn’t know the breakfast diners since she works nights.

“Hi, welcome to the Northend. How are you today?”

‘James’ looks up, lips twitching into a smile before smoothing out. “Hi. We’re good. You?”

“I’m doing well this morning, sir. What can I get for you two?”

His eyes don’t stray from hers even as he orders. His friend doesn’t bother looking at her. She doesn’t mind. Her skin is prickling under the scrutiny, the subtle thrill of someone as beautiful as ‘James’ being interested enough to stare at her like this.

She manages to walk to the kitchen window, out of sight of the diners, before slumping against the wall. Colton had never been that interested.

‘James’ doesn’t look at her again as she places their breakfasts onto the table, as she refills their coffee mugs. His face is a mask of serious intensity while he listens to whatever his friend is saying, and he keeps his voice lowered when he replies. Aila can’t hear what he says even when she’s next to the booth.

It isn’t until she’s set the bill on another table that she realises why ‘James’ looks so familiar. The image of a license photo comes to mind, and Aila shudders at the memory of his frozen eyes. They’re bright now, almost warm whenever he looks at her.

She questions how a man could switch so quickly between two extremes. Tightening her ponytail, Aila decides not to think further on it. Mysteries aren’t what she needs. She needs to get over Colton and move past the failed attempt of a lifelong relationship.

‘James’—or rather, Niall—and his friend are gone by the time Aila makes it around the dining room once more. She hadn’t even given him the bill yet. Growling low in her throat at his dine-and-dashing, she heads to the front to count her tips so far for the morning. _Penny-pinchers, stiffing me on tips._ She will be taking home next to nothing once she splits the money between the other servers. Her blood boils, her hands shake.

“You missed something, Aila.”

She looks up to see Tony nearing the till. He holds out a bill, telling her to be more careful with her money, then disappears into the back. The dishes rattle in the bucket tucked under his arm. She checks to see whether the cash will cover the tab. Her eyes widen.

Niall has given her a fifty-three percent tip. For serving him food. Aila knows it’s most likely a mistake; he’ll be coming back any moment to get his change and leave her a couple dollars.

But as the hours pass, he never shows up. She goes on break with the thirty-five dollars tucked into her apron, wrapped in a rubber band so she can find it easily when he comes by. Getting off her feet is a relief, and Aila sighs blissfully as feeling surges back into her toes.

> **From: James (11:41)  
>  >** Sorry if you felt I was stalking you by showing up at the Northend . I wasn’t. I was just as surprised to see you there.

She changes his name in her phone before replying.

> **From: Aila (13:59)  
>  <** No worries. I figured it was just a matter of coincidence, considering how little distance there is between the bar and the restaurant. But yeah I usually work evenings but one of my coworkers is out sick today.
> 
> **From: Niall (14:09)  
>  >** Glad you didn’t think it was weird.  
>  **From: Niall (14:09)  
>  >** So since you introduced me last night as James to those girls , I feel I should tell you my that’s not actually my name  
>  **From: Niall (14:11)  
>  >** It’s Niall . Although James is in my name, so you weren’t far off
> 
> **From: Aila (14:11)  
>  <** Well, I’m Aila, and it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mister Niall James, but I kinda already knew that. I found your wallet about a week or so ago. Had to open it to get your address.
> 
> **From: Niall (14:11)  
>  >** Oh . Thanks for returning it. It’s kinda important to have
> 
> **From: Aila (14:13)  
>  <** It was empty when I found it, by the way  
>  **From: Aila (14:13)  
>  <** I didn’t steal from you.  
>  **From: Aila (14:14)  
>  <** I better get back to work. Talk later?

She doesn’t give him chance to reply. Instead, she locks her phone and stands, stretching out the kinks in her back. Marian is a stickler for the rules, but she also knows when to ease up. Especially during a busy shift like this.

It’s two hours past the end of her shift, and Aila loathes that she was kept so long. Manisha had tried to take over the bulk of Aila’s workload. It hadn’t helped much. Arguing with Ian about whether she got the tips had exhausted her. They may have been the tips he earned, but he should have showed up on time. She even told him as much before leaving.

Thankfully, Marian took her side.

Aila showers off the smell of the restaurant then falls face-first onto her bed. She’s tired and her body aches. The tension slowly bleeds from her muscles the longer she lies there. She blinks once, twice, then she’s asleep.

“Hey, the girls are back.”

Aila twitches violently, scowling at the abrupt arrival of Angel in the doorway. “Five minutes.”

Angel dances away to the living room, leaving Aila to force herself fully awake. The nap hadn’t done much to alleviate her exhaustion. Instead, it’s left her head heavier than before, fatigue seeping into her bones. But it’s Junk Night.

She can’t disappoint her friends.

She shuffles into the living room a few minutes later, stomach rumbling at the sight of dozens of takeaway boxes spread across the coffee-table. She hasn’t eaten since last night, and now she is paying the cost. She sits on the lumpy floral-printed couch beside Cheyenne and reaches for the nearest box. The Thai restaurant a few doors down from La Serene has been a staple in their Junk Nights since the tradition started.

They all know this is a luxury, something they can’t afford every day. But every Sunday, they pool the money they’ve set aside after paying the rent and utilities and buying groceries. One night of no responsibilities as they eat their weight in various foods and mock the films they watch.

Angel brought horror into the house, Cheyenne and Willow an extensive collection of romantic classics, and Paisley forces action on them all. Aila only had one film—something she hasn’t touched since her failed engagement with Colton.

It felt so much like the life she thought she was living. Now it feels too much like a mockery.

Willow presses play on the machine and settles back against Paisley’s legs. Of course. A black-and-white ‘classic’ in which the woman falls head over heels within three seconds of meeting the man, and he changes her entire life, saves her from whatever distress she’s in. He’s the hero, and she is the damsel who loves him. It’s a foolish notion, but Aila wants to believe that kind of love is real.

The only conversation that happens as the movie plays is the occasional demand of a new dish. Aila grabs two fried mozzarella sticks before passing the tray along. She is sure none of this should taste as good as it does when combined with the others. Weirdly enough, she has no complaints while filling her belly with a myriad of Thai, Chinese, Italian, pizza, and burgers with fries.

One film turns into two, this time a gruesome thriller that has her hiding her face against Cheyenne’s shoulder. Aila hates that her friends enjoy these kinds of flicks. She doesn’t protest, though. These hours together are worth a bit of discomfort. And so much fear.

Aila goes to bed hours later with the annoying feeling that she’s forgotten something. Something important. Before she can figure it out, she falls asleep to Paisley’s humming as she scrolls through her social media, the heating system kicking on, and the wind that knocks against the window.

It hits her in the split second of sleep and awake: Aila was supposed to text Niall. She bolts upright and scrabbles for her phone. It may be too early, but she has to apologise to him. She hates when people don’t contact her when they promise to. She hates being that type of person.

Her mother always said Aila made herself too available: “Give people something to miss, if they can find something about you they like.” Aila, on the other hand, thinks it’s only common courtesy to follow through and maintain connections.

> **From: Aila (07:03)  
>  <** Oh god. Sorry!!! I I came home and took a nap and completely forgot that last night was a Junk Night. I can’t stand when people don’t actually text when they say they will, so I don’t like being that kind of person. So… Sorry!

Aila wanders down the hall and drops to sit on the couch. A spring pokes into her ass, unrelenting its stabby presence. Maybe they should put Junk Night on hold until they can buy a new sofa. The monstrosity she sits on has been in the living room since before she moved in.

Evidently, it belonged to Angel’s grandmother.

“Hey, idiot, you’re gonna be late.”

“No, I won’t.” Aila checks the time. “Or maybe I will.”

Cheyenne swats at Aila’s head as she passes. Aila rushes through a shower and dressing in the uniform the hotel forces her to wear. Navy blue with gold trim, the slacks and blouse are hideous. Yellow thread over the left breast pocket states her name and position in the company. Housekeeping. It’s a dirty job, but a job nonetheless.

Russ assigns her to the top floor. Aila barely manages to refrain from groaning. The top floor holds all the ‘important’ guests, the ones who throw their money around to get their way. They tend to be the messiest, leaving Aila with at least an hour’s work to clear the bedroom of bedsheets that smell like body odour and sex. Half-filled liquor bottles and used condoms. Cigarette butts even though the hotel is non-smoking.

Her phone vibrates in her pocket as she finishes the first room. Some bigwig at the corporation that owns North Primden’s factories left behind an expensive watch and a pair of fuzzy handcuffs. Her nose wrinkles, and she hurriedly tosses them into the basket on her cart. She douses her hands in sanitiser before reaching for her phone.

> **From: Niall (11:41)  
>  >** It’s okay . Didn’t exactly expect riveting conversation. I get busy, too.
> 
> **From: Aila (11:46)  
>  <** I still feel bad and nothing you say will change that.
> 
> **From: Niall (11:46)  
>  >** Not even if I say I forgive you ?

She wonders if he is smiling like she is. Dopey and happy. Bright. Real.

> **From: Aila (11:47)  
>  <** Not even then.
> 
> **From: Niall (11:53)  
>  >** You are certainly something else, Aila

She grins and drops her phone into her pocket. As amazing as Russ is as a friend, he’s a terror as a manager. She really doesn’t want to be scolded. Again. So she hurries on to the next room.

Days pass in a routine: Work at La Serene, work at the Northend, home to sleep off the day—after texting Niall for a while. He doesn’t tell her much about his life; all she learns is he’s following his father’s footsteps in the family business. But he won’t say what that ‘business’ is. Instead of being irritated that he isn’t being forthcoming, Aila finds it intriguing. A mystery she doesn’t need, but a mystery she wants to solve.

She tells him, in return, of the family she left behind in Tarris. She studiously avoids speaking of the strained relationship with her parents, but nothing stops her from talking about YaYa, the one person Aila has never doubted her. Her grandmother has been her biggest supporter since Aila was a baby.

It’s a week after their first meeting that Niall asks about her ex. Aila almost wonders how he knows about Colton but remembers—Niall bought her a drink to make Colton jealous. Niall stayed outside with her until Paisley showed up. He kept her safe from any dangers even though he doesn’t know her.

She doesn’t tell him the truth about Colton. About how she’d nearly married him but was made a fool in front of their families and friends. About finding out he’d cheated for the last eleven months of their ten-year relationship.

All Aila says is Colton is an ex and that’s all he will ever be again. Thankfully, Niall seems to understand. He doesn’t ask about Colton again.

Wednesday finds her in the homeless shelter between La Serene and Northend. It isn’t much, only two hours of scooping food onto trays, but it allows Aila to feel as if she’s doing more for the city that welcomed her. The city that feels more like home than Tarris ever did.

Aila stares at the people scattered around the room: Children and women and men, all desperate for hot meals and warm beds. There are dozens of shelters in East Primden. There are hundred of vacant homes. There is far too much food waste from restaurants. No one should be starving or without a roof over their head. Unfortunately, a majority of the citizens don’t agree.

There is never enough freely given to help these people as much as they need.

“Hey, Anson, I’ve gotta jet.” Aila unties her apron and sets it in the basket for washing. “I’ll bring by leftovers from the restaurant in the morning.”

“Thanks, Aila. Try to get more gluten-free options.”

Aila nods then bolts out of the shelter. Marian is going to kill her for showing up thirty minutes later without warning. Aila doesn’t bother waiting for the train or a taxi—she just sprints down the streets, rounding corners and darting between cars. People honk and shout at her, but she ignores them. She has more important things to worry about.

Namely, whether she’s going to get fired for breaking the promise she made: She wouldn’t let her volunteering duties and her other job interfere with her employment at Northend.

Marian is red-faced and shouting in the kitchen by the time Aila tiptoes past. Michel winks quickly as he ducks his head under the admonishment. It’s a fake display of remorse, but it’s what helps Aila sneak past her manager without being caught.

“When did you get here?”

Aila looks up from the till five minutes later and plasters on a bright smile. “I’ve been here since two.”

Marian’s frown grows. “Haven’t seen you.”

“Well, you were busy with the kitchen.” Aila grabs up three menus as a group walks in the door. “Hi, welcome to Northend. Booth or table?”

“We’re not done here, Aila.”

“Yes, ma’am!”

Aila hopes Marian forgets about the conversation.


	4. no contact

Marian forgets about the conversation.

Aila manages to get through her shift without being scolded—or fired. She digs her keys from the bottom of her purse and shuffles toward the nearest station. Her toes are freezing, slush seeping in through the soles. She’s needed new shoes for the last two months; she planned on buying another pair before the first snowfall. Any savings she’s had, however, has gone toward bills and groceries.

A shiver ripples down her spine as she takes the shortcut through the alley. She knows it’s the one section of her walk that has no cameras, no security. No lights. Her fingers grip her keys tightly, pointed edges outward. She rushes down the dark alley, listening for any suspicious sounds, then bursts out onto the next street. Blinking in the sudden glow of streetlights, she glances over her shoulder before scurrying away.

She never used to be afraid of the dark before moving to East Primden. Now, the dark poses dangers she would never have found in Tarris. Her home-city was too quiet, too close-knit, for any real risk. There was hardly any crime in such a small city, beyond the usual cattle theft or drunken teenagers vandalising the walls of the water reservoirs. Here, with a population of nearly eighty-thousand, Primden is rife with crime.

She still loves living here. She is just more careful.

The house is quiet, dark, by the time she walks through the front door. Aila kicks off her low-heel pumps and makes her way to the couch. Her feet are freezing from the snow outside and aching from being mobile all day. She presses her thumb firmly against the arch of one foot, massaging from heel to toe before beginning again on the other foot.

“I hate that they won’t let you wear anything more suitable to the weather.”

“Holy crap, Paze. Don’t scare me.”

Paisley turns on the lamp next to the couch, smiling ruefully. “Sorry. Just heard you come in. Figured I’d make sure you weren’t someone breaking in.”

“So you came out empty-handed?” Aila snorts. “What were you gonna do, launch yourself at them like a spider monkey?”

“Absolutely.”

”Why am I friends with you?”

“Because I have a nice rack.” Paisley sighs and drops to sit beside Aila. “Why don’t you ever get a ride from your coworkers? Your feet won’t be ice when you get home.”

Aila groans when Paisley wraps a blanket around her feet; Paisley pushes her thumb into the bottom of Aila’s foot, and Aila practically melts into the couch.

“I don’t want those pricks knowing where I live.”

“True. They’d demand hangouts then.”

“Exactly. Holy fuck, Paze, you’re amazing.”

“I know. Now get to bed. It’s after midnight.”

“Yes, Mother.”

Paisley gasps, clutching at her chest. “Don’t you ever insult me like that again, Aila Maleigh Greene.”

“If it’s any consolation, I like you more than I like my mother.”

“That’s almost enough.”

Aila giggles as she heads toward their bedroom. She doesn’t bother doing more than stripping out of her work uniform before falling face-first onto her bed. Paisley reaches for the lamp between their beds, turning the knob, and the room is doused in darkness. Aila blinks once, twice, then the world slips from her grasp.

> **From: Aila (10:39)  
>  <** I’m so tired. And bored. We’re dead right now  
>  **From: Aila (10:39)  
>  <** You should entertain me

There is no response. Aila stares at the screen of her phone, but he doesn’t reply. He doesn’t even read the message. Something jerks in her belly, and she can’t help but wonder if she’d done something wrong. _No, he’s busy_. She can only hope it’s the truth.

Then she wonders why she even cares. It isn’t like they are actually friends, no matter how often they’ve talked over the last two weeks.

Against her better judgement, she tries texting him a few more times through the day. Each message garners no response. Aila’s heart sinks further the longer he doesn’t reply. She knows it makes no sense. It’s utterly ridiculous to be upset. He is nothing to her except for the man who tried to make her ex-fiancé jealous.

She berates herself for thinking they were friends.

“Uh-oh, Aila has her ‘I hate life today’ face on.” Angel pats the couch beside her. “What’s up, love?”

Aila tosses her phone to Angel and heads into the kitchen for a glass of water. Thankfully, she doesn’t have to work at the Northend tonight—and she didn’t ask Joseph to pick up a shift. Her body aches enough already, and her mind is too preoccupied to deal with people calling her incompetent.

Cheyenne is frowning when Aila enters the living room. “Wait, he just suddenly stopped texting back?”

“Yeah, and I don’t know why. Did I do something wrong and didn’t know it?”

“No, you’re fine.” Paisley scrolls through the messages. “Everything seems like it was going well. Getting to know each other, the oh-so-subtle hints at your availability, the stupid puns only you find funny. There is nothing here to justify him not talking to you out of the blue.”

Angel shrugs, passing the phone back to Aila. “Honestly? If he’s acting like this now, seems you’ve dodged a bullet.”

Aila nods, though she doesn’t quite believe what Angel says. There had been something different about Niall—something she hadn’t recognised in any other man she’s known. Something that called for her to learn more and solve the mystery of who he is.

As much as she wishes she had an answer, Aila pushes the thoughts to the back of her mind. Angel is right—she dodged a bullet, the misery of another relationship coming to a painful end. She doesn’t need the heartache, and she certainly doesn’t want to swallow down whatever scraps of attention he bestows upon her.

No man is worth that. Not again.

So she stares at the thread, finger hovering over the ‘Delete’ button, then taps on the red warning. The messages disappear, but the unexpected hollow chill in her chest remains.

Over the next six days, Aila falls into a pattern. When she isn’t working at La Serene, she picks up as many shifts as possible at the Northend. She buys herself a new pair of shoes. Willow drags them to the Rogue, and Paisley and Angel help keep her mind off of him. Off the enigma he is, looming ever present in her thoughts.

She dances the nights away with the women who have been more like family than her parents ever hoped of being. She drinks away the odd sensation that she’s missing out on something that could be great. She sleeps away the loneliness.

It almost works.

But she’s just sat a plate in front of a customer when Manisha approaches. She doesn’t speak as she waits for the man to stop berating Aila for not being able to do her job, and Aila murmurs an apology she doesn’t mean. She plasters a smile onto her face and tells the man the four cocktails he’s had are on the house. As soon as she turns away, she rolls her eyes.

Manisha stifles a smile. “Someone’s waiting for you.”

“Did you seat them?”

“He said he isn’t here to eat.”

“Then why come to a damn restaurant?” Aila sighs and scoops up the bill folder that sits on an emptied table. “Okay, I’ll be right there. Let me grab ten’s refill.”

Aila makes sure none of her tables need anything from her then makes her way to the front of the restaurant. Manisha gestures with her chin before disappearing. Aila turns and immediately sighs. She’s done so well not thinking of him, but here Niall is in front of her. He looks better than any man has the right to. As amazing as she remembers him outside the bar.

She tucks her order pad into her apron, stepping closer. He still smells the same, even with the touch of earthy smoke mingling. “What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to talk to you,” he answers easily with a shrug.

“Well, you should have just texted. I’m busy right now.”

His lips tug down into a frown. “Even for a minute?”

“Look around. I have twelve tables to juggle and another five hours to go because my replacement called off. This isn’t a good time.”

A storm overtakes his eyes, the blue growing dark. Icy. He nods and pivots on his heel, and Aila watches him leave. She blows out a breath when the gust of cold wind sweeps the scent of him from the entrance. The world tilts beneath her feet. Seeing him has dredged up the feeling that her life could turn out so differently if she gave him a chance.

She doesn’t answer his call on the ride home.

Niall doesn’t call or text her. Aila doesn’t call or text him. The next week passes by with no contact but plenty of dreams. She wakes each morning with an ever-deepening sinking feeling in her gut. Niall had been so nice, protective, at the bar. Charming when he and his friend came in for breakfast. Personable and intriguing during all of their texts.

Aila wonders where _that_ Niall went and who is this cold impostor that’s taken his place.

“You don’t even know him, idiot,” she grumbles as she pushes past a couple arguing on the street.

The new year hasn’t brought in new cheer. Even the festival last month hadn’t distracted anyone from the cold weather or the unrelenting sleet that is a staple of winter in Primden. Aila’s feet slip inside Cheyenne’s boots, and she curses under her breath as she feels the blisters forming.

Thankfully, the landlord’s second building stretches up before her, ugly grey brick against an ugly grey sky. She shivers and pulls her coat more tightly around her before pulling open the door.

Inside isn’t much warmer than out. Aila carefully steps over the rubbish littering the cracked tile floor, wrinkling her nose at the odour that lingers. Her stomach lurches when a rat scurries along the baseboard of the wall.

Knocking on the door nestled in the back corner, Aila shudders and tries to hold her breath. It doesn’t work: Her nose fills with the stench of rotting food left in the lobby, the sickly sweet of chemicals pouring from beneath the door, and bodily waste. She doesn’t want to know if it’s human.

Preston yanks the door open, and his scowl turns to an almost bored expression. His too-thin frame trembles. She knows what it means. She forces herself not to react to the hollow cheeks or the fact he resembles a living, breathing skeleton. He leans against the doorway.

“Oh. It’s you.”

“Yep, it’s me.” Aila digs the money order from her pocket, holding it out. “Rent, as promised.”

He makes no move to take the sheet. She frowns and wiggles it. Still he doesn’t reach for it.

“Don’t need it.”

“It’s the second. Rent is always due on the second.”

Preston shrugs. “Talk to your roommates then, ‘cause one of ya paid already.”

“That’s impossible. We literally just went to the bank yesterday to get the money order.” She sighs. “Did you write down who paid it or something?”

He rolls his eyes. “Look, I don’t know what to tell you, kid. One minute, you owed rent. The next, the balance is cleared. Ain’t my job to care about who does it, just that it gets paid.”

“So you won’t mind signing a note saying we don’t owe anything this month?”

Another eye roll, but he disappears into his dingy flat. Aila doesn’t dare step inside. She can see the cluttered table, the cash spread out into piles. He comes back with a piece of paper.

_I, Preston Mosley, have reseved payment from house number 7710 in the amount of $3180 for the month of Febuary 2018. Now leve me alone._

Aila knows it is as good a promissory note as she’ll ever get, so she tugs it from his hand. As soon as he relinquishes it, he slams the door closed. She hisses in pain when the wood collides with her knuckles. She glares at the door for a moment then tucks the note and money order into her pocket. If he says they don’t owe this month, who is she to argue.

Unfortunately, her friends aren’t as satisfied. The group chat fills with questions about who could have paid the rent. Angel wonders if it was a VIP staying in the hotel, and Cheyenne thinks it was one of their parents who sent the money. Paisley is quick to veto that—“Our families can’t afford that much unless they pooled their money. And we all know Aila’s mother wouldn’t even consider helping us.” It’s a low blow, but it isn’t inaccurate.

Aila mutes the conversation and heads to the bank to submit a cancellation on the money order. She goes to work at La Serene. She gets through the day without thinking once of Niall, though it takes a herculean effort. It’s ridiculous, she thinks, that he’s on her mind so often. He’s just a man. A gorgeous, mysterious man, sure. But a man nonetheless.

The thought slams to the forefront of her mind that night, while she’s showering off the stench of industrial-strength cleansers: Had he paid the rent for them? After all, they had been arguing. He obviously has money, so did he do it as some weird apology? Aila wipes the shampoo from her face and shakes her head. He wouldn’t have done. She isn’t that important to anyone let alone someone who is a perfect stranger.

Two days later, her certainty falters. Aila stares down at the bouquet of flowers she now holds as the deliveryman walks away. She thanks the stars that she’s alone, that she doesn’t have to answer probing questions from her friends. Her palms grow clammy, flowers quivering when her hands start shaking. Something stirs in her gut, something that tells her he won’t just give up.

_Aila, I’m sorry for going silent out of nowhere like I did and for showing up at your work. I wish I could explain more. My phone is on for you, whenever you want to talk. -James_

She swallows thickly, growling under her breath when her eyes begin to burn. A tightness eases in her chest, and her shoulders slump forward. Niall isn’t angry about her refusing to speak to him at the restaurant. He’s apologising.

She has no idea what makes her do it, but she hides the note in the top drawer of her dresser. Even as she covers the card with rolled-up socks, she knows there is nothing he needs to explain. He made his choices. All she can do is accept that he decided he no longer wanted to talk to her.

Except he said he would keep his phone on in case she wanted to resume their semi-friendship.

Thoughts racing, Aila picks up her phone and composes a new message.

> **From: Aila (11:49)  
>  <** I got the flowers. They’re beautiful. Thank you. But you have nothing to apologise for or explain.
> 
> **From: Niall (11:53)  
>  >** I do .  
>  **From: Niall (11:53)  
>  >** Can we talk?
> 
> **From: Aila (11:53)  
>  <** I have a few minutes before I have to get ready for work, so sure. What’s up?
> 
> **From: Niall 11:55)  
>  >** In person
> 
> **From: Aila (11:56)  
>  <** Well, as I said, I have to work tonight.
> 
> **From: Niall (11:56)  
>  >** So come by Bobby’s after. Please ?
> 
> **From: Aila  
>  <** Fine. It’ll be about midnight.
> 
> **From: Niall (11:59)  
>  >** I’ll wait for you 

Aila frowns down at the message. Surely she’s imagining the intimacy it implies. He must have meant that he won’t leave the bar before they have the chance to talk. That’s all.


	5. too much to ask

Work goes horribly. Aila is so distracted by her thoughts of Niall, what he could possibly say to her, that she messes up order after order. She gives the wrong tables the wrong food. She nearly trips over her feet with a full tray in hand, catching herself just in time on a nearby booth—thankfully empty. A soda slips off the tray, but the rest is unscathed. Not victims of her distraction-induced clumsiness.

By the time she and Priya have finished closing the front of the restaurant, Aila’s skin is crawling. Her stomach won’t unknot itself, and her lungs are at least two sizes too small for her chest. At least. She carries the cash drawer to the office so Marian can count it. She tips out the rest of the staff, pocketing her share. Then she’s stepping outside into the cold February night.

Her breath puffs in the frozen air, snowflakes falling fat and puffy to the ground. Footprints have smashed a path on the pavement, and the city gleams orange-gold in the halo from the streetlights. The only sounds left now are the commuter train running its last lap of the night and the clock tower two blocks over chiming the hour. Rattling carriages and rich bells.

A cacophony that shouldn’t work but feels like home.

Aila wraps her scarf around her throat, tugs her beanie more securely onto her head, and sets off for the bar on 7th Street. The red glow of the sign spreads along the sidewalk, cursive letters forming _Bobby’s_. She pauses outside the door then pulls it open.

Smoke, liquor, and too many bodies. She shudders in the warmth and makes her way up to the bar. The same bartender from before beams as she comes to a stop.

“You’re back.”

“I am. It’s kinda weird that you remember me.”

He chuckles and shakes his head. “What can I say? Hearing you speak Irish made you memorable. Not a language spoken often around here.”

“Had an Irish neighbour growing up.”

“That explains it. So what can I get for you?”

“Um, I’m actually here to see someone. I don’t see him, though,” she says slowly as she scans the bar. Niall isn’t anywhere to be found, not even in the corner where she first laid eyes on him.

“Ah, another Irish boy, ‘bout this tall, always dressed as if he’s on his way to a business meeting?”

Aila laughs, nodding. “Exactly.”

“He’s back there.”

Aila cocks her head when the bartender gestures to a door behind the bar. He chuckles, tells her to go on, and turns back to his duties. She thanks him quietly and hesitates before stepping around the edge of the bar.

“Hey, why’s she getta go back there?” someone grumbles.

“You can either be happy with where you’re at, Job, or you can be happy on your ass in the street.”

Job doesn’t respond, and Aila ducks through the door.

It’s almost like stepping into every single mafia film she has ever watched: A large group of people sit around a circular table, Niall directly across from the door. To his right sits the man who gave her a lift home. The man to Niall’s left is slender, dark hair falling over blue eyes that rival Niall’s. A woman with pale blonde hair glances up, and one perfect brow raises as she takes the card Niall passes over.

Aila doesn’t bother examining the others. She only stares at Niall for answers, but he doesn’t look away from the cards he holds. He does gesture to a man standing along the wall, so obviously he is aware of her presence. Aila would be terrified of the man’s appearance—broad body, scars across his face, the way his jacket doesn’t fall smoothly along his hips. But there’s a light in his brown eyes that dispels any fears she has.

Lift-Giver scoots his chair to the side as the man sets another next to Niall. Aila nods and sits. She grits her teeth against the questions, against the desire to breathe in the scent she’s remembered so vividly since the night she gave Niall her number. Her blood burns hot in her veins; what is she even doing here? She’s making a fool of herself, coming to him when he calls.

No one speaks until someone across the table reveals his hand. Aila knows nothing of poker—games promoting gambling were forbidden when she was growing up—but she can understand the ruckus that explodes. He must have won the round. Niall shakes his head with a rueful smile before setting his cards down face-up.

Aila swallows harshly when he stands, excusing himself from the table. The others stare-without-staring at her. The other woman, however, doesn’t bother with pretences. Her blue eyes are narrowed, lips set in a hard line. Slender fingers, ivory skin meeting scarlet nails, drum on the tabletop.

Aila averts her gaze to the table. Something about the woman screams danger. Maybe it’s the slow roll of her fingertips to wood, or the way she holds herself so languidly, the shadow in her eyes that promises she’s on the ready.

Thankfully, Niall comes back after a moment with two glasses in hand. He passes one to Aila and waves the others away. The woman rises smoothly to her feet. Aila sees the knife at her waist. Blood rushes in her ears. The door closes behind them, then the only ones who remain are Niall, Aila, and the man who gave her a seat. He stays beside the wall, but still she can’t wonder if he’s close enough to hurt her.

As if he can read her mind, Niall gives her a lopsided grin. “Don’t worry. Yuri is too nice for his own good. Aren’t you, Yuri?”

“You are insulting me, sir.”

Niall’s laugh is bright, beautiful, even with the cold edge it holds. “I’ll do better. Anyway. Thank you for coming by, Aila. It... it means a lot that you’d be willing to talk to me.”

“What is this about?” she murmurs, risking a glance at his face to see the amusement is gone.

“I can’t tell you why I stopped messaging you,” he says. Aila’s mouth opens, but he shakes his head. “I’m sorry. For what it’s worth, I wish I could.”

“Is there anything you can tell me? I really don’t think it’s too much to ask, Niall.”

His face closes off. His jaw tics, and he spins his glass slowly. “I can’t.”

“Then I don’t think there’s anything more to talk about.”

She leaves her drink untouched and strides from the room. A fire runs along her spine, pools in her gut. How could she have gotten her hopes up that he’d be upfront with her? She storms to the bar, dropping a few bills into the jar, then storms out of the building.

“Asshole,” she mutters to herself as she all but stomps down the pavement. “‘Oh, I’ll apologise for not telling you anything, but look here, I can’t tell you anything! How convenient for me!’ Stupid man. And stupid me for believing he’d be honest.”

The twenty-block trek home is filled with anger and an indignant voice in her head telling her she shouldn’t have trusted him so easily. It isn’t wrong, not really. Only two months have passed since Colton proved that finding a good man, an honest man, is almost impossible. They all have their secrets, and some secrets shouldn’t be kept.

Aila locks the door behind her and kicks off her heels. A voice in her head screams for her to throw them as hard as she can. She doesn’t, but she is far beyond tempted. The couch squeals, springs compressing then releasing, and Willow comes into view. Her brows furrow.

“Whoa, what happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Aila, you know I know you better than that.”

“Stupid men.”

“Colton or the man who got you those gorgeous flowers?”

“How do you know it was a man who got them? Maybe I bought them for myself.”

“Yes, because I totally believe that. Pink carnations, white clover, white rose, red salvia, and chamomile? None of those are something you’d buy for yourself.” Willow shrugs when Aila pushes past her toward the kitchen. “I’m just saying. My mother made me learn flower symbolism as a kid. All of those are too romantic to be a self-absorbed purchase.”

“Yeah? What do they mean, then? Since you’re so knowledgeable.”

Willow pins Aila with a flat look. “In the Victorian era, pink carnations meant ‘I’ll never forget you’, White clover, ‘think of me’. Chamomile symbolises patience in adversity. A white rose is ‘I’m worthy of you’, and red salvia means ‘forever mine’.”

“So... you don’t believe I bought them for myself?”

“Definitely not. Nice try, though.” Willow sighs, throwing an arm over Aila’s shoulder. “Honey, what happened?”

Aila draws in a steadying breath and tells her friend of how Niall showed up at the Northend last week to apologise, how he’d sent the flowers this morning and asked her to meet him after work. How she had but he hadn’t been able to explain why he stopped talking to her in the first place.

“I just don’t know why he can’t tell me the truth. Hell, I’ll even take a ‘It’s been fun, but I’m done with you’.”

“After those flowers, I don’t think it’s that, babe.” Willow pulls her into a tight hug. “Go to bed. Things will make more sense in the morning.”

Aila hopes Willow is right.

Paisley doesn’t stir even when Aila turns the lamp on. Undressing quickly, Aila pulls a T-shirt on then digs through her bag. Her chest tightens, pulse racing, and she dumps the contents out onto the mattress. Pens, order pad, apron, wallet. No phone.

She curses under her breath, rummaging through the mess to no avail. She even searches under her bed in case it managed to bounce out of her bag. The familiar device is nowhere. Aila bites back a growl. Of course this would be happening. She had an awful day, so why wouldn’t the middle of the night be just as awful?

Aila checks Paisley’s phone and breathes out a sigh of relief. Her roommate has to be awake early, so Aila can just rely on the alarm Paisley has set. She crawls into her bed, sighing as her eyes burn. Once the lamp is off, Aila lets the tears fall.

A hollow void has taken up residence in her gut. Loneliness clings to her like a second skin, and a voice in her head tells her she should never have trusted that Niall would be different. Colton had been just as charming in the beginning before the indifference and the infidelity. He’d shown interest in who Aila was as a person. The only difference is Niall lost interest more quickly than Colton had.

The bar.

She must have dropped her phone at the bar when she stormed out. Of course she had, because her day wasn’t horrible enough. Sighing, Aila rolls onto her back and stares through the dark at the ceiling. She scrubs a hand over her cheeks, sniffles, and decides to deal with everything in the morning. Especially the flowers.

Paisley offers up her phone the next morning. “I don’t have anything planned today, so I was just gonna be lazy in front of the television all day.”

“Nah, I’ll use my old one until I can put in an insurance claim this afternoon.”

“But you hate that phone. _I_ hate that phone. The screen is cracked to Hell and back, and it dies within an hour.”

Aila frowns and tries to protest, but Paisley is right. The phone has definitely seen better days. Unfortunately, Aila is stubborn, so she sets off to work with the phone in her bag and a strong urge to stop by the bar on the way. Ignoring that urge is harder than it has any right to be. Her mind tells her seeing Niall is a horrible idea, but the rest of her wants to see him.

Wants to drink in his vivid blue eyes, even with all their iciness. Wants to breathe the scent of him. Wants to know if his hair is as soft as it looks. Wants to figure out why he keeps his cards so close to his chest.

As much as she wants to believe it, Aila can’t convince herself he’s just another rich guy who dropped her when he realised she would never fawn over him. A small part of her clings to the hope he is different than he seems.

> **From: Willow (11:20)  
>  >** Hey, someone was here trying to find you. He said he found your phone at Bobby’s.
> 
> **From: Aila (11:27)  
>  <** Blue eyes, dark hair, Irish accent, a body you could climb for days?
> 
> **From: Willow (11:27)  
>  >** That’s a very specific description but yes.
> 
> **From: Aila (11:28)  
>  <** Okay. Thanks. I’ll get a hold of him.
> 
> **From: Willow (11:29)  
>  >** WAIT! Is that the guy who you’ve been texting?! The one who sent the flowers??? Oh hell he’s gorgeous. 

Aila ignores the last text and opens the thread with Niall. Her chest fills with a surge of gratitude that the contact book synced to her account this morning. _Leave my phone at my house. I’ll get it before my shift at the Northend._ There. Succinct, to the point, emotionless.

He reads it but doesn’t reply.

Thankfully, Portia assigns her to the fourth floor. No disgusting VIPs to clean up after, and Aila could kiss her manager with joy. She gathers up dirty towels, she strips beds, she scrubs the bathrooms. It’s mindless, something to clear her brain as she works. Her thoughts float away in the hum of the vacuum cleaner. Her body relaxes the more she settles into autopilot.

Reality crashes down around her. Aila is heading toward the kitchen when something suddenly screams for her to look up from her shoes. She does, breathing out sharply. There is Niall in the lobby. He leans against the wall with an almost bored expression on his face, his phone in hand. His peacoat hangs open in the front, and the white of his button-down is a beautiful contrast to his skin.

Aila exchanges a look with Bernie at the front desk then makes her way to Niall’s side. “What are you doing here?”

He glances up at her before finishing out the text he’s composing. Cold flushes over her skin at the sight of his eyes. No longer warm, they chill her to the bones. She did that. His hand disappears into the pocket of his dark slacks, and he comes up with her phone.

“We were already almost here when I got your message. It would’ve been stupid to turn around.”

His voice is just as frozen as his eyes. Aila reaches for the device with a trembling hand. Niall’s gaze flickers to her fingers as they wrap around her phone, brush against his. He gives away no reaction. She opens her mouth to—what? Thank him? To beg for answers?—but he turns on his heel. She watches him leave.

Her heart drops at the sight of his back disappearing in the crowd outside.


	6. damsel in distress

Aila makes her way on shaking knees to the break-room. How could he be affecting her this much? It’s been just short of two months since they met, and only a few of those weeks have held any sort of contact. Colton had broken her trust in men, in anybody, yet here she is trying to trust Niall.

Her old phone won’t turn on. The battery must have died—true to Paisley’s prediction. Aila is only surprised it lasted three hours. The phone Niall has just returned surprisingly has a full battery. The ice in her chest thaws slightly at the consideration he showed in charging her phone before giving it back. The gratitude almost drowns out the nagging that says something isn’t right.

Almost, but not quite.

Tapping in the PIN as quickly as possible, she brings up her text messages. The thread with Niall is gone. His name is no longer in her contacts. Her breath comes out in a shuddering gasp when she realises he’d removed all traces of his presence in her life. A heavy weight settles in her belly, and her hands tremble with far more than fear.

She’s so consumed by the hurt that she doesn’t even question how he got into her phone, considering she changes the lock code every other day like clockwork. Digits that always correspond with whatever book she’s enjoyed recently. Never anything easily figured out, like a birthday. She doesn’t care how he figured it out—all she can focus on is the fact he’s made his point clearly.

Three days pass before everything changes again. Aila drags her gaze from the mannequin on the other side of the window to the man’s reflection in the glass. Her mind races to place why he looks familiar. Throat closing, she realises she has seen him everywhere she’s turned since Niall gave her back her phone. His deep tanned skin and black hair, dark eyes that scan over the street constantly. The leather jacket he wears that doesn’t match the weather.

He’s been following her days.

Aila swallows down the bile and pretends she hasn’t seen him, even when his head turns back toward her. Her legs don’t want to cooperate, don’t want to carry her into the boutique. She forces herself through the door as she thinks of every action film she has ever watched to devise an escape route. An assistant bounces up with a bright smile, and Aila pastes a matching grin on her face.

“Hi, uh, this may sound really, really dumb, but I’m being followed. Is there any way you can help get me out of here?”

The associate’s eyes widen, then she’s nodding vehemently. “Of course. Right this way.”

Aila follows with a pounding heart to the back of the shop. When they can no longer see the front window, the associate ducks into a narrow corridor and taps at the buttons on a keypad. The back door opens with a quiet _click_.

“Go to the left, and you’ll reach the cross-street. The right will only lead you right back out front.”

“Thank you so much.”

Aila peeks around the corner of the building at the end of the street, gasping when she sees the man is still there. Her mouth grows dry, palms clammy beneath her gloves. A cop car screeches to a halt a moment later. Heat floods her face as she watches the man straighten to his full height. As the officer approaches. As the man’s eyes meet hers through the distance.

Even from half a block away, she can see the slight upturn to his lips.

Aila keeps an eye out for the man through the following weeks. He doesn’t reappear again, but the way her skin crawls tells her he’s still out there. He’s still watching her every move. She wonders if she should tell Niall about it. But what could he possibly do? Besides, it isn’t like he cares.

He might as well have screamed ‘fuck off’ when he scrubbed his existence from her phone.

Night has fallen by the time Aila leaves the Northend. Her body aches from hours of walking around and carrying heavy trays. She leans against the wall, dreaming of the hot shower and a long night of sleep, while Marian locks the door.

“Anybody need a lift home?”

Aila is the only one who shakes her head. Marian frowns and opens her mouth, but Aila beats her to speaking. “I promise I’ll be fine. I know my route like the back of my hand, and it isn’t that long of a walk. I won’t become a popsicle.”

“It’s not the cold I’m worried about.”

“You think someone is going to attack me?” Aila laughs. “Trust me, Marian, nobody is out right now. And even if they are, no one is gonna want me. I’m too much trouble.”

Marian tries to argue, but Aila waves and walks away. Her manager is well-meaning. Aila just doesn’t want to spend the next twenty minutes freezing while she proves her point. Besides, Marian lives all the way on the other side of the city, near the border between East and West. She doesn’t need to drive an hour out of her way.

Aila is four blocks away when she hears them: Heavy footsteps behind her, trailing after her. Cold wind bites at her cheeks, but Aila can’t feel it through the acid coursing through her veins. Whoever is following her isn’t surreptitious. They aren’t trying to hide the fact that she’s their prey and they are a predator looking for a victim.

They aren’t the man from before.

Aila gulps against the bile. She almost wishes he was around—at least with him, she didn’t know he was there. She wasn’t frightened of him.

A thick fog settles over her mind. Her knowledge of East Primden’s streets disappears. Aila tries sticking to the main streets where people still mill about, making their way to and from bars and work. Then she sees another man crossing the street, his gaze locked on her, his strides long and unwavering. Determined.

She knows they’re corralling her. She knows she is giving them what they want. She ducks down a side alley anyway in hopes of getting to the next street. Maybe she can lose them there.

Crumbling red brick is all she sees. Aila hears the footsteps nearing and sprints to the end of the alley. She’s just climbed onto the trashcan, hoping she’s tall enough to reach the top of the wall, when someone grabs the back of her shirt. Her nails scrabble against the wall, but she has no choice but to follow where the man yanks her.

He grins sharply, and the shadows enhance the menacing expression on his face. A tattoo spreads across his left cheek, up to his temple and down his throat. Aila’s vision swims when he crowds her against the wall. His lips are chapped, scabbed over, and he smells as if he’s just come from a brewery. Aila hardly dares to breathe.

“Please, j-just let me go. I’ll give you my money. I have seventy bucks. And my phone! You can have that, too. Just let me go. Please. I wanna go home, that’s all.”

“‘Just let me go’,” he mocks. His rough voice sends chills down her spine. She swallows down more tears. The icy wind presses against her belly when he lifts the hem of her shirt. “I don’t think we can do that, babe. See, you’re the kinda girl we like.”

Her gaze tracks over his face then to the other three men cornering her. The gleams in their eyes petrifies her. The man she assumes is the leader leans closer, his finger twirling in a lock of her hair. She tries to scramble backwards, further away from the hard line of his body, but there is nowhere to go. She jerks her head away, skull slamming against brick, as he leans forward to sniff at her throat. She can’t see through the fear and pain.

She quakes while his thick fingers trail along her collarbone, slip between the buttons of her dress-shirt. Across the swell of her breasts. She closes her eyes, though common sense yells at her to keep them open. “Please leave me alone.”

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

The voice rings out, colder than the wind whipping through the alley. Rage fills every syllable, and Aila can’t stop the sob when she recognises the accent. One of the men turns and curses loudly. The others follow suit, then they’re scattering. They nearly trip over themselves in their haste to shove past Niall, to get away from his wrath.

Soon, all that’s left are Niall at one end of the alley and Aila at the other end. Bile sits on her tongue, and she can’t drag in a steady breath. Her knees threaten to give out on her.

“Darling? Are you okay?”

Aila flinches away from the hand on her shoulder, no matter how gentle and warm it is. She hadn’t heard Niall approach. He murmurs an apology and repeats his question. She nods shakily but doesn’t open her eyes.

“Aila. Are. You. Okay?”

His tone brooks no argument, so she exhales unsteadily. “I’m fucking terrified, and you need to back up if you don’t want vomit decorating your shoes.”

He does. Aila immediately bends forward to throw up. Niall holds her hair back with one hand, the other pressing firmly against her shoulders, rubbing circles into her back through her jacket. He stays quiet until she coughs, spits out the last of the bile, and stands up again.

He catches her easily when she stumbles. Her legs will no longer support her.

“Come on.”

Aila leans into him and lets him steer her toward a car just past the alley. His hands are soothing when he helps her into the backseat. His arm stays around her shoulders, keeping her tucked against him, and he tells the driver to take them home.

“No, I—”

Niall shushes her. “If you go home, you’re going to scare your roommates. Text them and let them know you won’t be home tonight. I’d hate to have the cops called for kidnapping you.”

“I can’t,” she admits, holding up a hand so he can see how badly she’s trembling.

His lips brush against her hair, and he digs through her bag for her phone. Against her better judgement, she tells him the PIN and buries her face against his chest. Her heartbeat slows the longer she breathes in the scent of him. The phone makes a soft swooping noise, then he holds her more tightly.

The ride is silent with only the purr of the engine to break up the quiet. The fear has vanished, pushed out of focus by the comfort of his arms around her. She shifts to get more comfortable and sighs. His breathing is steady; she clings to the rise and fall of his chest to keep herself grounded.

To not let her mind travel back to that alley.

Even in her wildest dreams, Aila never would have guessed she would walk through the doors to the largest house she’s ever seen. But that’s exactly what happens. Niall says something to his driver, then to another man off to the side. Aila doesn’t pay attention to what he says or the surroundings. She only follows him up a grand curved staircase and down a hallway.

“Go ahead and get cleaned up, darling.” His knuckles brush against her cheek, soft and soothing. “Someone will bring you pyjamas, and there’s a fresh toothbrush in the cupboard.”

Aila lowers herself to sit on the edge of the bathtub. “Niall?”

He pauses in the doorway, one hand on the handle. “Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

His answering smile is far more beautiful than any she’s ever witnessed in her life. He leaves without another word, and Aila turns her gaze to the marble floor. Tonight has gone so wrong. A wave of exhaustion crashes over her, and she stumbles to her feet.

Once she’s splashed cold water on her face and scrubbed her teeth, Aila steps out into the corridor. A woman barely older than she is stands just outside. She smooths down the front of her linen dress and gives Aila a smile that’s meant to be comforting. Aila is too tired to care much.

“If you’ll follow me, Miss.”

Aila shuffles after the woman to a door three rooms down. Another woman has just finished pulling back the comforter on the bed, and a small pile of clothing sits on the chest of drawers just beside the door. The older woman bows slightly, her greying hair gleaming in the lamplight, then she’s gone.

“I got this, Mera.”

Aila turns at the chilly voice. It’s the woman from the bar—the one who terrified Aila so horribly. Mera bows her head and exits the room. The door clicks closed, and Aila frowns.

“Do I really need an audience?”

“Nah, but I’m to make sure you get into bed without any breakdowns.”

“Then can you turn around? Only my best friends are allowed to see me in my underwear.”

“Touchy, touchy.”

But she faces the wall anyway. Aila quickly strips her work uniform off and replaces them with the pyjamas someone set out for her. They fit perfectly, cool and soft against her skin. Her shoulders slump forward as she crosses the room to sit on the bed.

“I’m done.”

“Okay. Huh, Haz is actually a decent judge of clothes.” The woman shakes her head. “Anyway. Niall’s in the room to your left. If there’s anything you need, ask him.”

“Thanks.”

The woman pauses at the door, shifting her weight between her feet. When she looks up, Aila is surprised to see her eyes aren’t as hard as before.

“Don’t be too hard on him. I don’t know what he sees in you—no offence—but he’s... He’s not a bad guy at the end of the day.”

Aila snorts and shoves a lock of hair out of her face. “Well, he saved my life, so I’m sure he’s not.”

“Yeah, just remember that in the morning.”

Before Aila can say anything, the woman is gone. Her warning lingers in the air.


	7. kept secrets

Aila doesn’t remember falling asleep. She doesn’t remember whether she tossed and turned all night or if she even dreamt at all. All she knows is waking to a pounding headache and a bitter taste in her mouth. She blinks slowly then sits up, stretching out the kinks in her body.

The mattress is better than the one she has at home. Aila reaches for the elastic band on her wrist, pulling her hair into a low ponytail as she examines the room like she hadn’t been able to last night.

Deep burgundy curtains are drawn tightly together around the room, fragmenting the pale creme-coloured walls. A black rug spreads across the floor around the bed frame. The mirror above the chest of drawers is gilded with gold, elaborate carvings along the edges. A nightstand sits beside the bed, and her phone sits on top. White against mahogany. There are no other decorations.

_No one must sleep here_ , she thinks. Aila exhales sharply and pats the mattress. Would Niall think it weird if she asked to take it home? Shaking the thought away, she pushes back the heavy comforter and clambers off the bed. Her uniform hangs from a hook on the back of the door, and another pile of clothes are stacked neatly on the bureau. A folded piece of paper rests on top.

> _Aila, these are for you to keep. Breakfast is in the dining room whenever you’re ready._

The handwriting takes her aback. Loopy and tidy, it doesn’t exactly match what she’s seen of Niall’s personality. Aila sets the note aside and picks up the blouse. The black fabric flows like water between her fingers, the silken smoothness interrupted only by the intricate lacework along the neckline. Her cheeks flush when she sees the underwear that had been hidden beneath the top.

Had he chosen them? Or did he have Scary-Woman pick them out? Whoever did it did a good job. Aila blows out a breath and hurriedly changes. It should concern her that everything fits comfortably. That the outfit is the same style as something she would have purchased for herself—if she could afford it.

She makes sure to grab her phone and bag before leaving the room. The creme walls have extended to the hallway, white marble twin snakes on either side of a maroon rug running the length of the hall. Aila pauses next to a painting on the wall: Rolling fields of green, a cluster of cottages under an expansive stretch of blue sky. She has no idea what place the painting depicts—it certainly isn’t Primden or any of the surrounding towns—but it radiates peace, stability, _home_. A small scribble in the corner marks the artist’s name, though she can’t decipher it. It looks like a blob.

_Breakfast is in the dining room._ Right. She was on a mission. Where is the dining room? She had been so frazzled last night, she hadn’t paid attention to the path Niall had taken when bringing her to the room.

Her head swims as she realises she’s lost. A small voice tells her she will never leave this corridor and she’ll die here, become a skeletal decoration. Aila swallows thickly and tries to decide which corner to take: the one before her, or the one at the other end.

A quiet shriek escapes her lips when someone rounds the corner in front of her. The older man’s face remains impassive as Aila clasps a hand to her chest. As if it will control the sudden galloping of her heart. As if it can calm her breathing. It doesn’t work, but she tries to find comfort in the pressure above her sternum.

“I was looking for the dining room?”

She winces when the words come out as a question. The man nods stiffly and turns on his heel, striding away. Aila scurries to follow him. He may not know it, but he’s saved her from rotting in this house. His steps are measured, the route a well-learnt path, and Aila forces herself to not gawk at the decor they pass.

He comes to a stop just outside enormous doors. Voices come from the other side, unintelligible through the wood, and Aila meets the man’s gaze. His chin dips, then he reaches out for the handles with gloved hands. The doors swing open without a sound, and she watches as the people in the dining room come into view.

Niall sits at the head of the long table, and the driver who gave her a lift home that day is to his right. Scary-Woman sits to the left. Aila is focused on the soft smile on Niall’s face, not bothering to look at the others. He waves the old man away. The man bows and leaves Aila alone. She inhales as steadily as possible, hoping to draw strength from it, but her knees still shake as she takes the seat the driver vacates.

As she sits, she finally takes stock of the others. Her brows furrow. “Didn’t you get picked up by the police?”

The man’s cheeks flush a furious red, eyes flashing. His scowl disturbs the sharp lines of his cheeks. Someone down the table snorts, a hand clapping over his mouth, and even Niall appears amused by her enquiry.

“He did. He was let out.”

“Why was he stalking me?”

“Not stalking, love. I asked Zayn to keep an eye on you for your protection.”

“Yeah, that worked out well,” she grumbles, and Niall’s gaze drops to the table, pink tinting the tops of his ears. “Anyway. If you wanted me to have a bodyguard, you probably should have picked someone less attractive.”

Niall tilts his head with a brow raised. She almost gets lost in his eyes, but his voice distracts her, pulls her out of the daze. “What do you mean?”

“He’s too… _pretty_ , I guess, to be inconspicuous. He stood out in a crowd. Wait, why the fuck did you have someone tailing me?”

He sighs, raises his hands in surrender, and promises to explain after breakfast. She frowns, wanting to argue, but he’s already moved on. She sits back as a woman sets a plate in front of her. She picks at the food and wonders if she can get by with not eating. Her thoughts are racing too much for her to feel any hunger.

Niall pushes her fork closer to her without even taking his eyes off the man he’d had following Aila. She blows out a breath and picks up the utensil. His lips quirk as she takes a bite. The others talk around her, obviously assured she won’t understand the coded phrases. They aren’t wrong, she thinks. She has no hopes of understanding. So she only picks at her food and tunes them out as much as she can.

Aila comes back to herself when she realises she’s alone with Niall. Her eyes widen at the empty chairs and silence. He swallows down the rest of his coffee before gesturing for her to follow him from the room. His hand settles, warm and gentle, on her lower back as he guides her to a room across the foyer.

Navy blue walls greet her, and the same burgundy curtains hang over the windows here though they’re tied back. Weak sunlight barely touches the room, but the lamps on the end-tables illuminate the space enough. A chessboard sits below the front window, two wingback chairs placed on either side, and the far wall is blocked off by bookshelves that stretch from floor to ceiling.

Niall waves toward the couch in the centre of the room, and Aila sits at one end while he takes the other. She stares at the coffee-table, at the knives and wire spread across the surface. She shifts uncomfortably when she recognises them from the films she’s watched with her friends.

“When I realised my wallet was missing, I figured someone would have found it at some point.” Niall smiles when she finally meets his eye. “I have more faith in humanity than most would like, but even I didn’t figure it would be brought back with nothing stolen. You surprised me.”

Aila scratches idly at her hairline. “There was nothing in it. I told you that.”

Her tone is too defencive, she knows it is, but all Niall does is laugh and shake his head.

“Yes, well, that just further proves you didn’t search through it for longer than it took to get my address. If you had, you would have found my bank cards.” His face settles into seriousness, and he hesitates before turning to face her more fully. “When I saw everything was just as it was when I lost it, it intrigued me. I’ve lived here for almost nine years. People don’t often return lost items without demands of compensation.

“But you? You wanted to return it directly to me—or rather, Mister Niall Ho-ran. It’s Horan, by the way. And you _yelled_ at the guard because he walked away without offering you a lift home. Which is why I sent Mully after you. Didn’t want you to freeze to death after being so kind to me.”

“I appreciate that. Well, my feet do, anyway.” She pauses, running her finger along the seam in the leather cushion. “Still can’t tell me anything, can you?”

“You believe me when I say I wish I could, don’t you?”

“I suppose I have to, don’t I? It’s the only answer I’ve ever gotten from you.”

Niall gives her a crooked grin. “I’ve said it before, but I’ll say it again. You’re something else, Aila.”

Her gaze drifts along the expanse of his body, the T-shirt over broad shoulders and chest. The slacks that hardly conceal the muscles of his thighs. Her eyes focus a second too long on the stretch of fabric between his legs. Cheeks flushing, Aila quickly looks away.

“So what are your plans for the day?” he asks as if he hasn’t noticed her checking him out.

“Probably go home and sleep some more. I have tonight and tomorrow morning off, so my roommates and I will most likely have a belated Junk Night.”

“You’ve mentioned that before. What exactly is ‘Junk Night’?”

Aila laughs and wonders how she can explain it without making it sound like they’re all a bunch of gluttons. “Well, we’re broke as Hell, so we pool our money once a week to get a bunch of takeaway and criticise whatever films we’re watching that night. Last time was the _Godfather_ series, but there wasn’t much we could criticise about those. They’re classics.”

“You like mafia films, then?”

She wonders about the slight downturn to his lips, the darkness in his eyes. She nods and explains she likes almost any movie she watches. She’s more particular about books, but she can usually find at least one redeeming quality with films. Even the worst ones.

“Anyway, Junk Night is basically just a reason for the five of us to hang out, relax, and forget about the fact we’re all working too long hours for too little pay to put up with the shit we do.”

“It sounds like fun.”

“It is. Which is why I forgot to text you back before.”

Niall laughs and pats her knee. Aila’s breath catches in her throat at the contact. “And I told you that you’re forgiven for it.” He checks the time then grimaces. “I hate to do this, but I’ve a meeting to get ready for. Whenever you want to go home, let Tania or Mully know. They’ll give you a lift.”

Aila nods and watches him stand. The muscles in his back ripple beneath the cotton of his shirt, slacks tightening around his ass before relaxing once he’s fully upright. He smiles down at her, fingers brushing along her cheek as he passes, and a fluttering kicks up in her chest. His touch was soft—almost inconsequential—but it still affects her. She hardly dares to believe in the juxtaposition of the feather-light contact and the hard ice in his eyes the last time they saw each other.

“Am I allowed to text you again?” she asks; her voice is small, and she waits with bated breath and heart racing.

He pauses at the doorway, but he doesn’t turn around. “I’d like it if you did.”

Then he’s gone. Aila listens to his footsteps as they fade then stares around the room. Nothing catches her interest. Her head is spinning too wildly for her focus. This is a totally different Niall than she saw the last two times they were face-to-face. He’s still guarded. He keeps his cards held too closely to his chest. But she doesn’t feel like it’s her fault anymore, that she somehow caused him to pull away.

Whatever he’s hiding is on him. She has to trust that the truth will out eventually.

His name is in her contact list once more.

Rising to her feet, Aila exits the room in search of Mully. Tania—she assumes Tania is the woman from last night—is far too frightening. She’s been in close quarters with Mully before; she can at least have faith he won’t kill her for stumbling into Niall’s life.

“May I help you, Miss?”

Aila whirls around, eyes wide. The old man watches her with glittering eyes. She gasps in a breath.

“You need to wear a bell.”

His lips twitch minutely as he bows his head. “I apologise, Miss. My intention wasn’t to startle you. May I help you?”

“Yeah, um, I’m looking for Mully.”

“I’m sorry. Mister Sean has just left. Miss Tania is around if you’re interested in speaking with her.”

“She isn’t going to, like, murder me, is she?”

“Of course not, Miss. Mister Niall would not be pleased if she did.”

“Then I guess I’ll talk to her.”

“Right this way.”

Tania is sat at the edge of a gigantic indoor pool when the man leads Aila through the archway. He bows again and disappears. His footsteps are far too quiet. Aila draws in a steadying breath before turning back to Tania. Zayn and two of the men from breakfast are swimming laps, none of them paying attention to the newcomer.

“Uh, Tania?”

“What?”

“Niall told me to ask you for a lift home?”

Tania glances back over her shoulder with narrowed eyes. Finally, she scoffs and clambers to her feet. “If he said to ask, then I guess I have no choice.”

“I can take the train back, it’s not a problem.”

“Yeah, that’ll go over as well as a lead balloon. Niall won’t risk your safety like that. Lou, I’ll be back. Keep these idiots in line.”

Lou waves a hand, grinning brightly at Aila, and dives under the water again. The other two follow suit. Tania’s soft smile disappears when she faces Aila. No words are spoken as Tania leads her through the corridors, through a kitchen bustling with activity, and into a garage. Aila can’t stop the gasp.

Seven cars are sheltered from the weather outside. From vintage to modern, every single one of them shine in the overhead lights. Tania makes her way to a gleaming teal sports car and pulls open the door.

“You coming or what?”

Aila rushes to the passenger door. Bass thunders through the car once Tania starts the engine. She doesn’t bother waiting for Aila to buckle up; she presses a button on the pad above her head, and the garage door rises with a rumbling hum. She reverses quickly out of the structure, a sharp smile on her pale face when she sees Aila clinging to the door handle.

Aila doesn’t let go as Tania goes well over the speed limit. She takes curves far too fast. She weaves through the traffic cluttering up downtown. She doesn’t slow down even when the lights turn yellow. Eventually—sooner than Aila expected—the car squeals to a stop outside of her house. Tania stares out her window while Aila steps out of the car.

Before she can shut the door behind her, Tania lowers the music and leans over. “Don’t fuck this up, Aila.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Just remember that.”

“You’re making me remember an awful lot without explanation.”

“You’ll never get one from me,” Tania says with a snort. “Now go away.”

Aila pushes the door closed, and Tania speeds away. These people are demanding too much of her patience if they expect her to be okay with not having answers.


	8. giving up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 😘😘😘😘😘😘

Aila hates how much she dwells on Tania’s words through the next week. No matter how hard she tries to make sense of the warning, Aila remains at a loss. What could she possibly ‘fuck up’, if there’s nothing even there? Sure, Niall saved her life, but that doesn’t mean she’s the damsel in distress who’s going to fall head over heels for the hero.

This isn’t a film, and she is _not_ a damsel in distress.

Except she was. She never would have escaped that alley if he hadn’t come along. She would have died with fear in her throat, and the men would have gotten what they wanted before leaving her for dead. Niall had saved her and taken her to his house. He took care of her.

Aila groans and tugs a pillow over her face. She _has_ to stop thinking about this, or she will drive herself insane.

A heavy weight falls across her belly, a sharp elbow landing on her hip, and she yelps at the pain that rips through her torso. She throws the pillow to the side and glares at Paisley. Her best friend only smiles back before brushing her braids from her face. Her umber eyes sparkle.

“Chey has news.”

“If it’s that she’s pregnant, I’m going to ask how that happened. Jenna doesn’t exactly have the proper parts for that.”

Paisley smacks Aila’s leg. “Don’t be weird. C’mon.”

“Hey, Paze?” At Paisley’s soft hum, Aila hesitates. “Do you think I’m being stupid, forgiving Niall like I did?”

“Nah. I think you’re doing what your heart wants you to do.”

Aila doesn’t respond. She just pushes her friend off her belly and climbs to her feet. Paisley leads her out to the living room where the other three women have gathered. Cheyenne is nearly vibrating on the couch, hands tucked between her thighs. As soon as Aila drops to sit on Angel’s lap and Paisley takes the remaining armchair, Cheyenne holds her left hand aloft.

“Jenna proposed!”

“Ow!”

Angel squeaks out an apology before rushing to Cheyenne’s side to examine the ring. Aila sits up and rubs her lower back, grumbling to herself about the pains of being dropped unceremoniously on the floor. No one is listening to her—they’re all enthralled with Cheyenne recounting the proposal. Aila can’t care about the pain. Her friend is too happy.

Three bottles of wine disappear that night, and Cheyenne is still blubbering about her fiancée as she falls asleep on the couch.

The next morning, Cheyenne drags Aila out of the house. Cheyenne’s chatter fills the trek toward downtown, but she doesn’t seem to notice that Aila is barely paying attention. She just keeps talking about her joy at getting married soon.

“So why are we here?”

Cheyenne pauses just inside the door to the shop, frowning. “Haven’t you listened to a word I’ve said?”

“Honestly?”

“I swear, Aila, if your head wasn’t attached to your body, I’d think it wasn’t there at all.” Cheyenne sighs and makes her way to a rack of dresses. “I have to meet Jenna’s parents. So we’re here finding a decent enough outfit so I don’t embarrass my fiancée.”

“Yeah, good luck with that.”

Cheyenne scoffs as she slides hangers along the bar, and Aila wanders around the shop. Business at the Northend was better than expected, so she might as well find something for herself before she can’t afford to even breathe.

“Good morning, miss. Is there anything I can help with?”

Aila blinks owlishly at the man who’s suddenly popped up at her side. “Um, no, I think I’m okay. Thanks, though.”

“Of course. If there’s anything I can do, just give me a shout.”

A strained smile spreads across his face, but Aila has no time to question it. He hurries away, taking up post behind the till. His eyes, dark as soil after a springtime rain, follow her around the shop. She keeps her head down, pretending she doesn’t notice. Pretends her skin isn’t crawling. Pretends she isn’t about to collapse under the weight of the memories of that night.

“We have a lovely blue, if you’d like that one.”

Aila glances up from the lace-wrapped sundress. The neckline is deeper than she usually wears, but the soft cotton tempts her. She can almost feel hot sunshine on her skin, can almost see her reflection in a mirror while wearing this dress. So she swallows down her discomfort and forces a smile.

“That sounds wonderful. Yes, please.”

The man dips his chin before disappearing behind a curtain. Cheyenne ambles closer, frowns at the situation.

“What the Hell is that about?”

“I honestly couldn’t tell you.” Aila shrugs. “Maybe he’s excited to make a sale?”

“I’m the one with seven dresses on my arm. If that were the case, he’d be falling over himself to help me. There’s something about you that’s got him all... _that_.”

Aila can only shrug. Her gut churns as Cheyenne’s words settle heavily on her mind. Cheyenne is the one spending the most money. The man shouldn’t be scrambling to help Aila like this. She stares at the floor while Cheyenne pays for her purchases.

“I’m gonna go get us something warm to drink. Meet at Triple C?”

“Hm? Oh. Yeah. I’ll be right there.”

Cheyenne breezes out of the shop in a swirl of cherry-scented perfume and blonde hair. Aila shakes her head and steps up to the counter. The man’s gaze darts to her face repeatedly as he scans the tag. Aila cocks her head at the total—something isn’t adding up. The tag says twenty, but the screen says eight.

“It’s on clearance, miss.”

“Oh. Okay then.”

The man passes over her bag but doesn’t relinquish the handle immediately. Chewing on his lower lip, he leans in closer. “Could you please tell Mister Horan I got his message this morning, and I will do as he’s asked?”

“Uh...” Her mind short-circuits. How does this man know Niall? Deciding that _Noali’s_ is one of the businesses he inherited from his father, Aila twists her lips into a smile. “Of course.”

The worry falls from his face, and he nods, letting go of the bag. “Have a wonderful day, miss. Stay warm.”

She thanks him and heads to the door. His gaze lingers on her shoulders even after she steps outside.  


> **From: Aila (11:58)  
>  <** A guy at Noali’s says he got your message and he’ll do it?? 

The message turns to ‘Read’, but there’s no response from Niall. Aila sighs and pushes her phone into her pocket. Shivering in a sharp gust of wind, she pulls her jacket closer before bustling down the street. _Coffee & Cocoa Cafe_ sounds damn inviting right now.

Winter reluctantly relinquishes its grip on the city. Snowfall turns to rainfall, and warmer moons take over the chilly mornings. The banners on the courthouse and streetlights change from silver-grey to a rich blue, a sure sign the Spring Festival is coming.

Aila’s breath puffs in front of her face, vapour clouds in the cool morning, and she concentrates on the steady rhythm of shoes to pavement. Not the burning in her legs that tells her she’s pushing herself too far. Not the stabbing in her chest that begs for a break. Just the bite of the wind and the _thump thump thump_ of rubber to concrete.

“Do you ever stop running?”

The hand on her elbow is the only reason Aila manages to stay upright, though she shrieks loudly. She yanks her arm away, moving into a self-defence pose before bending over to catch her breath. Niall smiles apologetically when she glares up at him.

“I really hate you. What the Hell?”

“I called your name, like, a mile ago.”

Aila finally takes notice of their surroundings. The familiar trail she’s followed has shifted, morphed into a section she hasn’t seen nearly as often. The screeching of children is almost inaudible at this distance. She straightens up and sets her hands on the back of her head. Anything to help draw in more oxygen.

“Sorry, guess I was lost in my thoughts.”

“Anything good?” he asks with a soft grin.

“Mostly what I’m going to wear to the bachelorette party.”

The amusement flickers, and Niall cards his fingers through his hair. “Bachelorette party?”

“Yep. Cheyenne is one step closer to being permanently off the market.” She pauses, cocking her head when she realises he won’t meet her eye. “Wait. Did you think _I_ was getting married?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know a lot of things about me. I told you, my ex is my ex.”

He shrugs, gesturing toward the path ahead of them. “Shall we?”

Aila rolls her eyes but starts jogging again. Niall keeps up easily. It’s weirdly comforting to not be alone, to have his breathing matching hers as they continue along the trail. She pretends she doesn’t hear the third set of shoes following them.

They have just begun to circle back toward the park entrance when he speaks again.

“I’ll be out of town next week.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Cousin is getting married, so I have to be there.”

“Well, I hope you have fun.” Aila glances at him from the corner of her eye; her gaze skims along the jacket he wears, though it does nothing to hide the planes of his body. “I can’t see you in a tux, though.”

He huffs out a laugh just this side of breathless. “Well, I’m not the one getting married, so a nice suit will be enough.”

“I’d like to see that.”

His blue eyes widen slightly, and he gives her a crooked grin as they slow. Aila’s cheeks are numb from the chill, the sharpness that lingers in the air. She still feels the warmth of his lips on her skin. The contact sends electricity through her blood. When he pulls back, his grin has softened.

“I’ll let you know when I’m back.”

He squeezes her arm, so gentle it causes an ache in her chest that’s unrelated to the two miles she jogged. Then he’s gone, followed closely behind by the man who acted as their shadow. Niall glances back at her before sliding into the backseat of the car waiting for him. She watches the vehicle disappear from sight, and a weight settles in her chest at the thought of not having him near.

She recognises the stirring in her gut way too well, even though the intensity is far greater than she ever felt with Colton.

Niall texts her early Tuesday morning, telling her to stay safe and he’ll see her as soon as possible. Aila tells him to have fun and stay out of trouble. She doesn’t question the ‘as soon as possible’ portion of the text. She couldn’t handle feeling foolish for reading too much into it.

Wednesday dawns warm and bright. No rain clouds hover above, no leftover snow on the ground. Aila breathes in the city’s smell as she makes her way to the station. She wonders how she ever felt at home in Tarris when Primden has been here all this time, waiting for her to settle within its borders.

Her body is loose in a way it hasn’t been since autumn. Her jogs had been put on hold for all the snow, but now she has resumed them with relish. She’d managed to sleep in this morning; a rare morning off from either of her jobs, she took full advantage.

The ladle nearly falls from her hand when the large doors swing open, Tania striding in as if she owns the place. The founder scurries out of the back office, and the men following after Tania watch the people gathered closely. The trio disappears into the office with Caryn.

Aila swallows against the lump in her throat. Why is Tania here? A tightness takes residence in her chest. She knows there is no love lost on Tania’s end. Perhaps she’s come to tell Caryn that Aila should be banned from volunteering—for whatever reason.

Tania emerges from the office twenty minutes later. Nothing on her face gives away what the meeting was about, but then she meets Aila’s gaze from across the room. Steel-blue eyes widening slightly, Tania nearly falters in her steps. She recovers with grace and strides through the doors to the streets of East Primden.

Thursday brings bored texts from Niall. Aila answers them as well as she can. Working two jobs makes it difficult, and she finds herself constantly apologising. He constantly tells her to stop saying sorry—“If you keep saying sorry , it’ll lose its meaning”.

> **From: Aila (13:21)  
>  <** Can’t I just come work for you? Obviously your company is doing well. I wouldn’t have to work so much if I had a better-paying job.
> 
> **From: Niall (13:24)  
>  >** Not happening  
>  **From: Niall (13:24)  
>  >** Classy, right ?

Aila doesn’t get to question his abrupt refusal; she’s too enthralled by the photo that appears on the screen. His head isn’t in the frame, and there’s nothing behind him that gives away where he is. But her attention is firmly on the fit of his black suit. The crisp white collar that highlights the strong lines of his throat. The tie that settles between his lapels.

She swallows thickly at the mental image of her hands wrapped in that tie.

She shakes her head and locks her phone. The image stays firmly imprinted in her mind. A small part of her wonders why he’s affected her like this. Sure, he’s absurdly attractive, and his accent makes her weak in the knees. But he’s just a man. Gorgeous, but a man.

And her track record with men leaves a lasting, negative impression.

To her disappointment, Niall texts on Saturday evening, telling Aila he has to be gone longer. She pouts but hurriedly drops her phone into her pocket. Josh watches her closely, and Aila smiles apologetically in the face of his frown. She ignores the sinking feeling in her gut and the warning in her chest. Something is going to go horribly wrong.

> **From: Niall (20:41)  
>  >** Finally home again . Never been happier to see my bed. Want to come over for a bit?  
>  **From: Niall (20:42)  
>  >** I missed talking to you

Aila snorts quietly. He’s the one who hasn’t responded to any texts and ignored her calls. It’s been nearly two weeks since he first left East Primden, and those were spent in radio silence. She would be lying, however, if she said she didn’t want to see him again.

> **From: Aila (20:43)  
>  <** Missed talking to you, too. Let me finish this film with the girls, and I’ll be there.
> 
> **From: Niall (20:43)  
>  >** Oh is it another Junk Night ? I don’t want to intrude or make you end it early
> 
> **From: Aila (20:44)  
>  <** Yeah, but it’s okay. They won’t mind. It means they won’t have to hear my bullshit commentary through the next bullshit film lol  
>  **From: Niall (20:44)  
>  >** If you’re sure. . .
> 
> **From: Aila (20:45)  
>  <** I am. Be there in about an hour and a half?

A fluttering kicks up in her chest. Willow nudges her shoulder, brows furrowing. Aila bites back a smile and shakes her head as she settles back into the couch. Her friends know about the lack of communication in the beginning, and they are all too loyal to accept that Aila forgave him so easily.

That she’s letting her unexpected feelings grow too much, too fast.

Rushing through a shower and getting dressed, Aila ignores the questions of her friends and bundles up in Cheyenne’s boots and a jacket. Her heart thunders beneath her ribs, her blood running hot. She makes sure she has her phone, train token, and her wallet.

It’s been almost two hours by the time Aila reaches the gate. The guard—one who’s more pleasant to deal with than the man who tried to force her into becoming a Aila-popsicle—lets her in. Aila thanks him through clattering teeth and hurries up the long drive.

She shifts her weight between her feet, shivering in the chilly night air, and waits for someone to answer the door. When the door swings open, Aila can’t stop her gasp. A spectacular bruise spreads across Tania’s jaw and highlights the thin line of red across her cheek. Her fingers clench around the door, and Aila stares at the bloodied knuckles.

“Go home. Niall will call you later.”

“He invited me over,” Aila protests, her voice so small—too small. Tania rolls her eyes and opens her mouth.

“Back off, Tania. Niall can make her leave if he wants.”

Zayn nods succinctly at Aila before climbing the stairs. Tania lets out a disdainful sniff even as she steps out of the way. Aila hurries to follow Tania through the corridors. Her mind races with possibilities of what happened to the other woman. Is Tania part of a fight club? Is Niall involved?

A dozen people fill the kitchen; some cook while others grab dinnerware. None of them look up from their tasks. Tania pulls on a heavy door at the back of the room, leading Aila down a steep staircase. Patches of light dot the dark, and her footsteps echo through the basement.

Tania gestures at a door near the far end of the expansive room. Aila thanks her quietly only to receive a snort in response. She watches Tania stride away. The barest hint of a limp lingers in her steps. Gathering up her courage, Aila knocks on the steel.

A brown eye peers through the crack, then the door slides open with a screech. A man stares at her.

“Aila?”

“Yeah. Uh, Niall asked me to come over.”

“Wait here.”

The words are barely out of his mouth when a yelp breaks through the awkward quiet, and her stomach lurches. Someone is being tortured. _Niall is being tortured._ Should she call the cops? Her voice shakes as she demands an explanation. He sighs and steps back. She swallows thickly and moves past him.

Ice fills her veins at the sight before her.

Niall is laid out on a cot, staring at the ceiling with red spreading across his bare chest. Someone leans over him and mutters under his breath. Flashes of light reflect off the silver tool in his hand, and Aila watches in horror as the man tugs something from beneath Niall's skin.

The bullet drops to the basin beside the cot with a metallic clang. Aila lets her gaze drift along Niall’s torso. The stitches might as well be beacons with how they catch her attention, draw her focus onto the angry slash across his belly.

The man glances up, his eyes darting from Aila to the man next to her. “She shouldn’t be here, Liam.”

“Let her be, Harry.”

The conversation forces Niall to lift his head. His blue eyes widen then narrow. Lips pressed thin, brows pinched tightly together. No chill lingers in his eyes, but Aila can recognise the anger. His jaw clenches as he lets his head fall back to the cot.

“You should— _fuck_!”

Harry smiles grimly. “If you’d lie still for a fucking second, it wouldn’t hurt so bad.”

“Piss off.”

“One more, mate.”

Liam pushes at Aila’s shoulder until she takes the hint. Her knees quake as she hurries across the room to stand at Niall’s side. His face softens slightly when she wraps her fingers around his hand. Aila swallows down her questions, the crushing weight in her chest, as her gaze tracks over the scene before her.

Purple-black spreads across his forehead, stretching down over his eye. A thin slice interrupts the hollow of his throat—a warning of worse. His chest heaves with shallow breaths, eyes closing tightly against the pain. His fingers spasm around hers, and she glances up at the man currently working in silence.

Harry frowns as he wiggles the forceps, gingerly extricating the bullet from the hole an inch above Niall’s hip. There’s too much blood.

“Ya done?” Niall groans once Harry has finished sewing up the wound.

“Yes, now shut up.”

Niall waits until Harry bandages up the injuries, then pushes himself carefully to sit. Aila moves as he swings his legs over the edge of the cot. Niall’s face twists sharply. His hand covers the gauze over his chest. The fact she’s so near to him is the only reason Aila hears the stuttered intake of breath.

Harry grumbles but doesn’t speak of his obvious displeasure that his friend isn’t taking it easy.

“Why didn’t you go to the hospital?” Aila murmurs. Bile sits heavy in her throat, and she blinks a few times. The burning remains.

Niall snorts and reaches for a bottle of whisky nearby. Aila’s hand darts out, yanking it from his grip. Repeating her question, she returns the bottle to its previous position. Her stomach churns, and minute shivers run along her spine. Niall glowers at her and, maintaining eye contact, grabs the bottle again.

“I didn’t ask you to be here,” he snaps, and she nearly steps away at the bitter cold in his voice. As it is, a small gasp escapes her. He doesn’t react.

“Actually, you did. You said you wanted to hang out. You invited me over.” She swallows and releases his hand. Her voice wobbles as she continues, “You have no right to treat me like this. I did nothing wrong except care about the fact you obviously got shot four fucking times at some point between our texts and now. You could’ve died, and I wouldn’t have known. So fuck you.”

He sighs, reaching for her. “Aila—”

“Oh, and just so you know, alcohol thins your blood. But whatever. Bleed out for all I care, you utter asshole.”

Silence reigns in the room, echoing behind her as she storms away from the cot. No one stops her on the trek to the foyer, but Mully follows her without word. She wishes she’d never come. That he would have left her alone, hadn’t texted her and gotten her hopes up.

That she hadn’t ever met him.

The car comes to a stop outside of her house, and she hesitates. Her fingers tighten around the handle. The man stares at her in the rear-view. His face is an expressionless mask, and she wonders how he can be so calm. Unresponsive in the face of her heart breaking.

“Tell him to lose my number. This is the last time he treats me like this. And make sure he knows he won’t change my mind, no matter how many flowers he sends me.”

He nods, still not speaking. She slams the door shut and listens to the engine’s purr fading away. Once inside, she leans against the wall and lets go of her control.


End file.
